


Perfect Imbalance

by Mistflyer1102



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: AU post-Skyfall, Bondlock, Developing Relationships, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, Rating subject to change
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-21
Updated: 2013-10-13
Packaged: 2017-11-26 07:33:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 49,985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/648128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mistflyer1102/pseuds/Mistflyer1102
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three years after the Fall, one of Sherrinford Holmes's decisions is coming back to haunt him while he's handling the aftermath of the close call that's also known as 'Skyfall'.  </p><p>It doesn't bother him too much... yet.  He just knows for certain that he's won a bet against his older brother, Sherlock Holmes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“Where’d you say you wanted to be left at?”

Sherrinford Quinn Holmes looked away from the pouring rain outside the cab window and back to the driver.  “St. Paul’s Cathedral, please,” he said, gloved hands resting on a small silver case.  Glancing at his mobile, he noted that it was a good hour before the service was set to start, and he only had fifteen minutes left before his rendezvous.  Adjusting his glasses, he turned back to face the wet world outside. 

The cabbie evidently wasn’t done talking.  “So, did you hear about that fake genius?  The one that jumped off the hospital roof and committed suicide?” he asked, eyes flickering as he slowed the cab down long enough to allow pedestrians to cross the street.  “Coward ran at the first sign of trouble, should have known he wasn’t any good.  Or real for that matter.”

“Whose funeral do you think I’m going to today?” Sherrinford replied, calm eyes turning to make eye contact with the cabbie in the rearview mirror. 

The cabbie was mercifully silent after that.

Tucking his phone back into his pocket, Sherrinford turned back to look outside.  He couldn’t really remember the last time he’d visited London, having grown up on the Holmes estate and attending a boarding school before heading to Oxford, obstinately following his older brother Sherlock’s footsteps.  Now he was finishing up post-university academic work before taking up his oldest brother Mycroft’s offer to work as the chief of Mycroft’s security staff. 

Sherrinford didn’t know what Mycroft’s intentions were, but he intended the position to be a temporary one.

“Here we are, sir,” the cabbie said, sounding subdued as he brought the cab to a stop in front of the entrance to St. Paul’s Cathedral.

“Thank you,” Sherrinford replied, handing over the correct fare.  “I…would also appreciate it greatly if you forgot about me,” he added, placing twenty pounds on top of the fare in the man’s hand.

“Of course, sir,” the driver replied, raising an eyebrow at the extra money.

Sherrinford merely smiled before slipping out of the cab, pulling on his parka hood as he did.

Keeping a firm grip on the silver case, Sherrinford gritted his teeth as he stepped right out into a rather large puddle, soaking his shoe and pant leg.  Keeping his complaints to himself, he awkwardly attempted to step over the puddle to reach the curb.  Then, once he was balanced on the sidewalk, he double-checked to make sure that the case was all right before heading into the cathedral.

It was extremely quiet inside, and Sherrinford was pleased to note that there was carpeting in the aisle, so he wouldn’t be making quite as much sound as he feared.  He tucked the case underneath his arm before handing over to the collector the entrance ticket he’d purchased online two nights ago for this specific visit.  Then he pulled his wet parka off and opted to carry it, draping it over his arm to conceal the silver case in hand.

He paused a moment to examine the Nave, the long central hall of the cathedral.   He could appreciate why even tourists came here, whether to pray or to simply visit.  He made a mental note to come back here as an actual visitor once he had the time, not as the courier he was now. 

Sherrinford took his time walking down the Nave, taking everything in before ducking over to the All Souls’ Chapel on the north end of the Nave.  Entering the otherwise empty chapel, he bowed his head for a few moments before moving to stand quietly near the chapel entrance, studying the altar before looking down at the effigy of the lying man in the center of the room.

“Field-Marshal Lord Kitchener.  Died off the coast of Orkney in 1916, his effigy honors all those who fell in the First World War,” a newcomer said as he walked into the chapel behind Sherrinford.

“Since you never struck me as the type to memorialize people, I am assuming that there is another reason you chose to meet here instead of Heathrow?  Where you _should_ be unless you’re planning to include Mycroft in this latest scheme of yours?” Sherrinford asked, turning to face his older brother, Sherlock Holmes.

“Of course not, he’s been under observation long enough for Moriarty’s network to be familiar with his habits.  Any change in those habits could give him, and subsequently me, away,” Sherlock replied.  He still needed to do something about his hair and change his clothes; the knit hat he’d stuffed into his jacket pocket was useless since the two of them were in a church.  Place of worship or not, there was always the chance that someone would not only recognize him, but either call him out on it now or tell someone else once he or she left.

“We both know that Mycroft has recently increased his security staff, including putting me in charge of it all,” Sherrinford replied.  Frowning, he said, “But you’ve never really worried about Mycroft at all before, so it can’t be him that you’re worried about.  I’m safe on the mere principle that I hate kicking up a fuss and prefer to remain behind the scenes as much as possible, so anyone barely knows me.  So it’s not family you want to protect.”

Sherlock gestured to the rest of the chapel.  “All of your clues are right in here,” he said, stepping back to allow Sherrinford a better view.

Sherrinford turned to examine the chapel.  After a few moments of silently taking everything in, he turned back to face Sherlock.  “There’s a reason you switched rendezvous locations… you want another favor.”

Sherlock didn’t say anything, just continued to watch as Sherrinford scanned the room again.  Puzzled, Sherrinford ran through the rather short list of his brother’s acquaintances, searching for any that had military connections.

He looked up sharply.  “Doctor Watson.”

“Just keep an eye on him, Mrs. Hudson, and Gregory Lestrade while I’m gone.  There’s a third flat at Baker Street, 221C, that’s available.  Mrs. Hudson’s having trouble renting it out because of the deplorable condition it’s in, but I’m sure you can get it back into habitable conditions,” Sherlock said quietly.  “Approach her five days from now, ask for the flat and tell her that you’d heard someone, you don’t remember who, mention that it was available.  I left enough money for my half of the rent for the next two years, it’s in our usual exchange box,” Sherlock explained quietly.

“And if you’re gone for longer than two years?” Sherrinford asked patiently.

“I plan to not be gone that long,” Sherlock replied stubbornly.

“Plans often go awry, as I’m sure you’re aware of.  If it takes longer than two years, I’ll pay out of my own pocket, and you can pay me back when you come back to life again.  Plus you’ll pay back the thirteen quid I had to pay for my entry ticket into this place,” Sherrinford said, his eyes narrowing slightly.  “Well, the ticket I expect you to pay me back regardless of what happens.”

Sherlock nodded. 

“Now before you go, I have two more things for you,” Sherrinford said, transferring the (still wet) parka over to the other hand so Sherlock could see the silver case.  “I tried to get the Browning you’d requested, but my supplier didn’t have any available, so you’ll have to go with a Walther PPK instead.  I’ve modified it a bit, made it invisible to airport security scanners.  That should give you more of an easier time traveling between countries,” he explained, opening the case to show Sherlock the weapon in question.

“Who is your supplier?  You haven’t been getting into anything that I should know about in the last two years, have you?” Sherlock asked, arching an eyebrow at his younger brother.

“MI6.  Very limited options when it came to weaponry because for one, they keep the best toys for the best agents, who are those in the double-oh program.  Then I had to pick an agent who loses his or her weapons frequently, so no one would think to check the dossier and requisition numbers twice.  Finally, because of the alarmingly short time frame you gave me, I had to select a double-oh who was just arriving in from the field.  Only one agent at the time fit the criteria.  Agent double-oh seven had been outfitted with several weapons, including a Walther, for his mission to Madagascar, none of which returned with him.”  Sherrinford smirked, and then said, “First mission as a double-oh and he’s already racking up numbers.”

“Impressive.  Mycroft will be furious once he finds out,” Sherlock said, taking the Walther out of the case.  “This will take some getting used to,” he said, testing the weight of the weapon.

“ _If_ Mycroft finds out, please don’t insult me, Sherlock.  I’m already breaking countless laws to help you out here,” Sherrinford said irritably.  He pulled out the smaller device and said, “This is a radio transmitter.  Pull the pin out as far as it will go, and your location will come up immediately on my computer.  _Please_ try not to lose this, it’s an MI6 transmitter and I had to spend several hours fixing the signal so that it’ll go straight to my computer instead of MI6’s tech department.” Leaning in, he whispered, “I had to test this five times.  Four times I had to run from MI6 retrieval squads.  Only had enough welcome surprises for three times.  _Do not lose this radio!”_

“Be careful with hacking MI6, Mycroft says they get really tetchy when external hackers get into their systems and make it back it out without getting caught,” Sherlock warned. 

“I’m not to worried about getting caught, I routed my signal through a recruit’s computer.  _If_ they detect a hack, the trail will lead them straight to a recruit’s computer,” Sherrinford said dismissively.  “Now when I get your distress signal, I will come if you are within a train or car ride’s distance.  If not, someone else will come to fetch you.  Use it when you need backup support, you’re grievously ill, or need immediate evacuation.  Please tell me you have a plan for hunting down Moriarty’s network, you’re not going to run all over Europe.”

“I have Moriarty’s name.  That’s where I’m going to start,” Sherlock replied calmly.  “Don’t get overconfident, it will be your downfall.  Especially with MI6.”

“Ten quid says they hire me before they catch me,” Sherrinford countered.

“Make it thirteen, and it’s a done deal.  And don’t send Molly Hooper if I’m overseas when I call for help, I need her to stay here just in case,” Sherlock said, tucking both the weapon and transmitter back into his jacket pockets. 

“In case of _what_ exactly?” Sherrinford asked, looking slightly panicked.

Sherlock shrugged.  “I need to either fake another death, or explain away another dead body?” he said before turning toward the door to the chapel.  “Wait five minutes, and then you can leave.”

“Try not to get killed, I don’t want to explain to Mummy and Mycroft why we have to bury you twice,” Sherrinford said, closing the silver case and turning back to face the effigy.

“Take care, and please keep an eye on John.  Take care, Quinn,” Sherlock said, and Sherrinford swallowed at the mention of a childhood name he hadn’t heard in years.  But he said and did nothing while he heard Sherlock leave the chapel.

Five minutes later, he turned and left as well.

* * *

He ended up missing the funeral completely.

He blamed his tardiness on his misfortune of getting lost in London.  

Sherrinford didn’t bother going inside the cemetery, just waited patiently outside as the very few mourners left the graveside.  One of them, he noticed, was one of the Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade of New Scotland Yard.  One of the three individuals that Sherlock had expressed concern for.  As the detective passed, Sherrinford merely nodded respectively at the other man.  Lestrade didn’t seem to see him at all, which was completely fine with Sherrinford.  Nice and invisible was how he preferred it.

“Doctor Hooper,” he greeted as the young pathologist passed him.

She jumped.  “Oh, I’m sorry, Mr. Hol-”

“Winchester.  It’s Winchester,” he said, smiling slightly.  “But I apologize for startling you.”  He glanced back at the grave, which still had three people, one that he knew very well and two that he didn’t.  “Who did you put in the coffin?”

Molly swallowed.  “My father, he passed away recently and he looked similar to Sherlock.  I, um, just altered his appearance slightly,” she admitted, still looking quite upset.  “The, um, data you requested is here,” she said, glancing back at Mycroft’s back before passing along the small package the size of a ring box.  “The passwords to get in are also in there.”

“Thank you.  I’ll have to alter his medical information in the next hour or so.  Mycroft will definitely double-check the records against the lock of hair I know he took from the corpse.  I know he hasn’t checked yet because I… did things that made him run a little behind this morning,” Sherrinford said, careful to keep his voice down.  He glanced at the people still standing at the iron fence, and wondered if this was Sherlock’s famous homeless network; Sherlock said he’d given them Sherrinford’s photograph so that they would recognize him as an ally.  “I’m sorry to hear about your father, he must have been a good man,” he finally said.

“He was, thank you,” she said, managing a watery smile.  “Mum thinks he was cremated, I don’t think I’ll ever have the heart to tell her the truth.”

“I greatly… appreciate everything you have done for us, Doctor Hooper.  And I’m sure Sherlock is as well, even if he’s not good at expressing it,” Sherrinford said, watching as Mycroft finally turned around to look back at them.  He put on an entirely innocent expression, to which Mycroft scowled before turning back around.  He said something to the man and woman before offering his arm to the woman, which she accepted.  Then the two started walking over to the gate.  Sherrinford knew he was in for it now, if Mycroft’s cross expression was anything to go by.  “That other man, the one who stayed at the grave, who is that?”

“John Watson, Sherlock’s flatmate.  They were close,” Molly whispered.  Sherrinford nodded absently as he watched John step forward to tap the top of the headstone twice before stepping back and looking down. 

_You saw, but you did not observe, brother.  Or did you?_

Sherrinford sighed.  He didn’t feel like analyzing right now, he still had to find a temporary flat.  Or maybe rent a hotel room for a couple days, which would probably be better for now.

But now he had to handle an angry Mycroft Holmes.  Never a pleasant thing, Sherrinford had had Sherlock to deflect Mycroft’s attention from himself when the two were still living at the Holmes estate. 

“I’ll have to talk to you later, Doctor Hooper.  It’s best if you keep the alias I introduced myself to you as, just for the time being.  Mycroft will know that we know each other, but we should keep it on the low side for now,” Sherrinford said, careful to keep his voice down.  “I’ll deflect Mycroft for now.”

“All right, thank you,” Molly murmured before disappearing from his side. 

Sherrinford turned to see Mycroft speak softly with Mrs. Hudson before hugging her gently and then turning to leave.  Well, more like turning to haul Sherrinford off by the collar for his tardiness.  Then Mycroft looked up at Sherrinford.

And froze in his place for the shortest of moments, as though he’d seen a ghost.

But Sherrinford saw it anyway.

He didn’t make a fuss or otherwise call Mycroft out on it.  “I’ll be reporting in for work at eight sharp tomorrow,” Sherrinford said quietly.  “I just need to finish re-learning my way around London today.  That’s all.”

There.  He’d laid out his excuse and promise to show up tomorrow, no questions asked and no accusations given. 

“Good day, Mr. Holmes,” he said quietly before turning on his heel and heading to the curb, pulling up his parka hood as he did.  No need for anyone else at the funeral to mistake him for a dead man.  He felt the weight of the small box in his parka pocket, as well as the empty silver case pressed up against his side. 

He had his work cut out for that evening.

 


	2. Chapter 2

_Has it really been three years already?_

Silence permeated the flat as John Watson finished gathering his things for the day.  Jacket, keys, mobile, all were where he’d left them the night before.  He could still vaguely remember a time when his things had a tendency to wander about the flat… _Sherlock_ had had a habit of moving things around the flat as though it was supposed to help him with the latest case on hand.  It wasn’t much of a glaringly obvious difference though, so John only really remembered it whenever he was heading out.

Today though, was the exception, as it had been the year before and the year before last.

A soft whine caught his attention, and he smiled fondly down at the English bulldog puppy.  “I’ll be back soon, don’t worry.  This afternoon, in fact,” he said, kneeling down to where Gladstone was nestled in the doggy bed in front of the fireplace.  The dog merely yawned and rolled over onto its side, waiting expectantly for a belly rub.  John smiled before rubbing its stomach, standing up once more.  Trying not to grimace as his leg twinged in pain, he somehow knew that he’d be using the cane again soon.  He reached for his old black jacket and slipped it on, glancing at Gladstone when the dog jumped up to its feet, clearly hoping to go for a walk.  “Sorry, not now.  But I’ll be back by lunchtime to walk you,” John said, kneeling down to scratch behind Gladstone’s ears.

Gladstone yipped and happily barreled straight into John’s knee. 

“All right then, be good now.  Don’t chew the furniture or the pillow, you know how Mrs. Hudson hates that,” John said as he stood up again, ignoring the aches in his joints.  He double-checked to make sure he had everything before pulling down a box of dog treats near the door and tossing it across the room, successfully distracting Gladstone so that John could leave without risking Gladstone’s escape.

Gladstone was actually the _second_ resident to arrive to 221 Baker Street after… after Sherlock Holmes’s death.  The first had been another lodger, a young man named Quinn Winchester.  With dark floppy hair, glasses, and defined facial features, the quiet recluse had shown up at Mrs. Hudson’s doorstep two weeks after the Fall in search of a flat.  Mrs. Hudson had known that John didn’t want another flatmate at the time since it was still too soon, so she’d offered 221C despite its obvious state of disrepair.  To her (and John’s) surprise, the man took her up on the offer, even after seeing the place for himself.  For the subsequent three years, Winchester kept to himself as though he somehow knew he was constantly reminding both John and Mrs. Hudson of Sherlock, to whom he bore a close physical resemblance. 

A year into his stay at Baker Street though, Winchester had stumbled inside sometime close to midnight, as soaked as the English bulldog puppy he was cradling underneath his parka.  He’d explained that he’d gotten lost on his way home and had found the puppy huddled underneath a soggy box outside the Tube station near where he worked.  He couldn’t keep him because of dog allergies, and had been planning to take the dog to the shelter first thing in the morning when John offered to keep him… after consulting with Mrs. Hudson first, of course.

“John?”

He paused near the front door and turned to find Mrs. Hudson standing in the threshold of her own flat.  “If it’s about Gladstone, I’ll be back this afternoon to walk him,” John said, giving her a reassuring smile. 

“That’s good to know.  I was actually going to ask if you wanted to have tea this afternoon, just the two of us.  Quinn said he wasn’t going to be able to come back until sometime tomorrow afternoon, poor dear is getting overworked again,” Mrs. Hudson said, wringing her hands nervously.

For a moment though, John heard the unspoken reason behind her request.  But he didn’t need one really, to reply.  He smiled sadly and said, “Of course, Mrs. Hudson.  Any time.  I’ll be back around noon,” he said before glancing reflexively in the general direction of 221C and then closing the door behind him.  Then he stepped to the curb and hailed a taxi.

He’d already known that Winchester wasn’t going to be home tonight.  He was always gone on the anniversary of Sherlock’s death. 

As much as John silently appreciated that though, he couldn’t help but feel a little wary of Winchester, it was as though the man was telepathic and worked his schedule around John and Mrs. Hudson.  Winchester, after a week of living at Baker Street, had even admitted to working for Mycroft Holmes as his security chief.  Despite this though, Mycroft never showed up at Baker Street ever again, not since his brother’s death. 

Although John suspected that even Mycroft’s employees weren’t immune to Mycroft’s kidnappings for unofficial conversations.  Winchester, a year and a half after Sherlock’s death, disappeared for an entire week, worrying Mrs. Hudson to the point where John grudgingly called the other man in order to ease Mrs. Hudson’s fears.  He’d gotten the man’s voicemail, but no return calls.  _When_ he reappeared, Winchester murmured apologies to Mrs. Hudson for causing her to worry, and he’d told John that his phone had been confiscated.  John had been tempted to ask him what it was that Mycroft had wanted, but somehow managed to keep the conversation polite and non-invasive.

“Sir?  We’re here,” the cabbie said, breaking into John’s thoughts.

“Thank you,” John said, handing over the fare.  He climbed out of the cab and headed toward the cemetery entrance, listening briefly as the cab roared away and left only silence in its wake.

A light fog clung to everything as John made his way through the field of headstones.  He sighed when he realized that he’d forgotten flowers, as Mrs. Hudson always brought when she came to visit, but figured that Sherlock would have been a little irritated at the ‘sentiment’.  He’d used to come once a week, but after two years, Molly managed to wheedle a compromise out of him where she’d stop nagging him about it if he only came once a month.  Coming to a stop in front of Sherlock’s headstone, John stared at the black granite for a few moments, taking in the still-clean gold lettering on the front.

“Well, it’s been three years now,” he said finally.  “Mrs. Hudson is doing fine, as is Gladstone.  I gave up trying to another flat a few months ago, there weren’t any available in all of London,” he said, smiling slightly.  “Knowing you, you would have suspected mischief and then accused poor Mr. Winchester of gimmicking the listings just to stop me from moving.”  Shaking his head, he said, “Maybe it’s a good thing you’ll never meet Winchester, you two look so similar that it’s unnerving every time I see him.”

Silence, just like he’d expected.

“Mrs. Hudson says hello as well.  Sometimes I can hear her moving around downstairs at three in the morning.  I feel like that even though you only did it for eighteen months and it’s been three years since the last time, she and I are still very accustomed to hearing your violin playing at three in the morning,” John said, biting back a laugh.

He was quiet for another few minutes before lightly placing his fingertips on top of the black stone, and just stood there like that for a few minutes.

Then he turned and left the cemetery just as quietly as he’d come.

* * *

After the Fall, John had steered clear of St. Bart’s as much as he could.  In the beginning, that is.

But after two years of subtle pleading from Molly and a rather tempting job offer from Mike Stamford, John finally caved and accepted a doctor position on the clinic staff.  But he still remained cautious of the place, even going as far as to avoid walking by the spot where he’d stood when Sherlock forced him to watch.

“Good morning, Doctor Watson,” Cassidy Walker, the receptionist, said as John entered the clinic.  She’d been hired around the same time as John, but did not carry reservations about her job as John did. 

“Good morning, Ms. Walker.  Do you have the appointments for the day?” John asked, pausing by her desk as he took his jacket off. 

“Yes, but I’ll need a moment.  There was a glitch in the system yesterday, and we’re still trying to assess the damage,” Cassidy said as she studied her computer screen.  Glancing up at John, she said, “One of the other secretaries said she was entering patient information when the screen ‘blipped’, and we noticed that there was an update in the patient listings for today, but we still haven’t found it.”

“Doesn’t it say when the patient made the appointment?” John asked, frowning.

“Yes, but so far, all the recent additions were made during appointment hours.  Speaking of which, you have a new one today.  Daniel Whishaw made an appointment with you yesterday, an associate from his usual physician dropped off his paperwork,” Cassidy said.  “Broken arm, got it in an accident.”

“If he already has another physician, why is he coming here?” John asked curiously.

“Something about the physician being unavailable today, it’s from a different hospital,” Cassidy said, studying the screen.  “The other doctor is Doctor O’Reilly, his contact information is on the paperwork,” she added, turning in her seat to reach for the papers that were printing.  “So your schedule today looks like this: Jasper McCullough at nine-thirty, Mary Morstan at ten, Ianto Jones at ten-thirty, and Mr. Whishaw at eleven,” she said, handing the stack of folders over to John. 

“All right, thank you,” John said, accepting the paperwork before retreating to the sanctuary of his office, collecting a fresh stack of prescription slips as he walked by Cassidy’s desk.

Once inside his office, he closed the door and hung up his jacket, setting the files down on his already-cluttered desk.  Then he sat down to study his future patients.

McCullough and Morstan were his regulars, almost friends even.  Ianto Jones was a special case from Cardiff; the man had been in London to meet with politicians and a dog had taken immediate dislike to him and bit him during his fourth day in London.  Today was the second follow-up appointment, and John was hoping to give the man permission to return to Cardiff tomorrow.

Whishaw however was a new case.   His photograph was missing from the file, but the rest of the man’s personal and medical information, including a rather scathing handwritten report from one Doctor O’Reilly.  This time, Whishaw had sustained a broken arm, and O’Reilly was unable to attend to him this time.  Whishaw worked as a liaison for Universal Exports, traveling around the world in order to secure the company’s interests in foreign ports.  He’d been in Scotland when he sustained the broken limb, and had just recently returned.  Scanning the man’s medical history, John couldn’t imagine a way that a liaison could rack up the incredible list of frankly life-threatening injuries that John saw now.  It was almost as though Whishaw had something of a death wish.

_No.  Stop right there._

John resolutely shut Whishaw’s folder and slipped it into the desk drawer with the others.  It would stay there until John was ready to see him.

“Jasper McCullough is here,” Cassidy said, pushing the door partially open.

John pinched the bridge of his nose, already feeling the headache forming.  Maybe he should have called in sick today.  Then again, it was either work or sit around the empty flat with Gladstone and memories for company.  He’d see Mrs. Hudson at meal times, but other than that, not at all.

Sherlock’s death, while a dull ache in his heart, was a constant one.

“All right, please inform Mr. McCullough that I’m ready to see him,” John said, looking up at Cassidy, who nodded.

The first part of the morning passed by in a blur, reminding John why exactly he’d relied on his job at first to help him move on from his flatmate’s suicide.  It kept him too busy to dwell on the thoughts that otherwise plagued him constantly.  Jasper McCullough was enough of a handful to keep John constantly moving.  The patient had once traveled to the United States for a conference, contracted an illness there, was kept for months so the doctors could attend to him, and then hightailed it back to London at his first chance.  Now he was extremely paranoid that the illness would return, so he came to see John frequently whenever he was panicking over something new.

Mary Morstan was a kind soul, and the closest thing John could call friend in his post-Fall life.  John, however, had yet the courage to ask her to coffee or just a chat off the books, he kept losing his confidence at the last minute.  He had no time now; she was heading to India to visit her father, who was stationed there, and had come in today just to discuss the results of the preliminary exam before she was cleared for the immunization shots. 

Cassidy waited by the door as Mary left and then stuck her head in.  “Jones canceled, something important came up in Cardiff and he left this morning.  I’m going to be faxing his paperwork to the medical officer in charge, Owen Harper.  On the other hand,” she said, leaning against the doorframe, “Mr. Whishaw just checked in, and is about to start terrorizing the waiting room staff if we don’t do something soon.”

“I just need five minutes to get his paperwork, you can send him here now to wait if you want,” John said before stepping past her and out into the hall to get to his office.

“Very well.”

Retrieving Whishaw’s paperwork where he’d left it, John flicked through the pages quickly before heading back out again to tend to him.  He silently shook his head to himself with a faint smile when he approached the examination room only to faintly hear a woman lecturing someone else inside.  Pushing the room door open, he scanned the paperwork over one last time as he said, “All right, Mr. Whi-”

“John Watson?”

Startled, John stopped in the doorway, almost dropping the paperwork as he looked up at the semi-familiar voice.  “James Bond?” he blurted out, eyes widening as he recognized the Royal Navy commander that he hadn’t seen since their brief stint together in Afghanistan.  “I don’t believe it!” he said, leaning against the doorframe. 

“You and me both.  I can’t ever remember a time when he’s been caught off guard like this,” said the dark-skinned woman on the other side of the room from the examination table, her iPhone up and out.

“Knock it off, Moneypenny,” James said crossly, but still grinned at John.  “Long overdue for that promised drink, don’t you think?”

“I was too busy staying in Afghanistan getting shot at, and then you were never in town,” John replied as he walked over.   “And you’re still getting into trouble, as I can see…”

“Relax, it’s just a scratch,” James replied as Moneypenny scoffed.

“Scratch?  No wonder you and O’Reilly never see eye to eye,” she said, crossing her arms.

“John, this is Eve Moneypenny.  She happened to be the babysitter for the day,” James said, John reaching over to shake hands with her. 

“ _Well,_ if you’d stop disappearing at your leisure, the boss wouldn’t feel compelled to assign you one,” Moneypenny teased as she shook John’s hand.  “Always a pleasure to meet one of James’s old friends.”

“Likewise.”  John glanced back at James and said, “We should get together sometime while you’re still here in London, and I can get you that drink I owe you.”  He also did have a multitude of questions, but sensed that now was not a good time to ask them.

“Tonight, perhaps?”

“Ah, tonight’s not good,” John replied, thinking briefly of Mrs. Hudson; she was going to want _some_ company tonight, namely his because they’d both lost someone dear to them three years ago to the day.  “Tomorrow?”

“Still works. We can check out a pub that a friend recommended, the 'Emerald Lion',” James replied with the semi-familiar grin.  He glanced at Moneypenny and said, “You can tell the boss I’m taking the next week off, I still have to find the brat who runs the IT department and chew him out for his blatant disregard for authority.”

“I'm not your secretary.  And despite the way things turned out, I still think she won’t be pleased if you do that,” Moneypenny countered as John began gently unwrapping the makeshift bandage around James’s arm.  “Besides, you can tell her yourself.”

“Hell no- easy with that Watson, I still need to use it,” James said, his attention diverting back to John, who was untangling the messy knot that held it all together.

“Relax, I have proper anesthesia this time,” John said, grinning at the memory as he reached over to the nearby drawer for a clean pair of scissors to cut through the thick material. 

“It hurt like _hell_ , Watson.  I still don’t know how you got to that position in the military if you couldn’t set a broken limb without trying to upset your patient…”

“I did offer to wait until we got back to the local base,” John replied easily, grinning at the memory.  “But you kept insisting…”

“Okay, you two just got yourselves a third drinking buddy, clearly there are some stories I have to hear,” Moneypenny interrupted.  “He never talks about his time before the two of us met.”

“Shut up,” James snapped back, feigning a swipe at her.

John smiled to himself as the bickering continued.  It was surprisingly comforting to hear it again, in some odd way.

It made him feel content for once in what felt like a long time.


	3. Chapter 3

_Mental note to self: stay on O’Reilly’s good side from here on out._

The man known as the MI6 Quartermaster to his superiors, Q to his underlings, and Quinn Winchester to his neighbors, tried not to fidget from boredom of waiting outside M’s office.  The secretary’s desk was empty, primarily because Eve Moneypenny was out with Agent 007 to make sure that the double-oh didn’t try to escape from his latest doctor’s appointment.  Q didn’t mind that the woman was gone because Eve had only recently joined the ‘stay-at-home’ staff, and down in Q-Branch, she had unknowingly acquired the nickname of ‘The Woman Who Shot James Bond And Lived To Tell About It’, ‘The Woman’ for short.  Q didn’t know her very well, and preferred to keep it that way.

Less people overly familiar with him mean that there were less chances of him getting caught red-handed aiding and abetting a dead man.  Granted, it did create something of a social vacuum around himself and a non-existent personal life, but he could live with that for now.  He would not relax until everything was taken care of… and he was absolutely sure that his tracks were covered well.

“Quartermaster, we will see you now.”

He glanced up to see Anita Reardon, the Prime Minister’s representative, waiting in the doorway.  She was there to represent the British government in what was a decidedly private ‘hearing’ of sorts regarding his perceived disobedience in the last couple of months. 

“Thank you, ma’am,” Q said, getting up and following her into the office.  He sat down in the only seat on the other side of M’s expansive desk.  He’d been relieved when MI6 was finally able to leave the bunker hideout and return to the newly reconstructed SIS headquarters, a relief that proved to be short-lived when Agent 007, James Bond within SIS headquarters, returned to England with M less than two months later, ready to murder Q for not only going against the plan to capture the ex-agent known as Raoul Silva, but allowing said terrorist to escape to God knew where.

 _Thank God Bond broke his arm and couldn’t properly kill me_. 

M might be another story.

The iron-fisted leader of MI6 was watching him carefully as he sat down before her, Colonel Gareth Mallory, and Reardon.  Q carefully kept his face devoid of any expression as he folded his hands on his lap and looked directly at her, ignoring the other two; Reardon was temporary, she was going to return to her post after he was sorted out, and Mallory, well, Q was still trying to figure him out.  The only thing he took comfort in was that Mallory had already expressed dislike for Mycroft Holmes more than once, so Q had something to work with if the situation called for it.

M spoke first.  It was her office, her rules.  “Quartermaster, you received orders to lay a cyber trail in an effort to trap the terrorist Tiago Rodriguez, also known as Raoul Silva.  You were instructed to lead him to the area known as Skyfall so that Agent double-oh seven could ambush him on home territory.  Instead of doing as ordered, you led Silva toward the center of London instead, toward government buildings before he disappeared completely.  Now not only is he missing, but so is the list of names of undercover agents,” she said.  “What the _hell_ were you thinking?”

“I was thinking that I didn’t want to have two more dead agents on my hands just because Agent double-oh seven was under the impression he could handle a man who held England at ransom.  Silva was and still is an unknown quantity to me, and I prefer knowing my odds before I act,” Q patiently replied.  “I truly admire double-oh seven’s tenacity to remain alive, but recent events left me questioning his ability to…” Q trailed off slightly as he thought of the best, least offensive way to go about this; Bond was going to be furious with him as it was, there was no need to add to fuel to the fire.  “His ability to… ah, conduct missions that end with a low, preferably nonexistent, body count,” he finished, still unsure of how that would go over. 

“You know it’s a problem when someone in your own department makes a point that the rest of us have been trying to make,” Mallory said to Reardon, who nodded, no doubt remembering the conference with the Ministry of Defense. 

M ignored them both.  “You’re in doubt over Bond’s ability to carry out a mission.  What a coincidence, since he’s in doubt of your competence,” she said curtly.

Q grimaced.  _Not the age thing again._   “M, I mean the following in the most respectful way possible,” he finally said, noting her tensing.  Mallory stopped whispering with Reardon and turned to face him.  “Please allow me the opportunity to explain myself.”

M narrowed her eyes, but nodded anyway.

Q released a breath through his teeth before he said, “Before I, er, you found me, as you know, I worked as Mycroft Holmes’s security chief.  Before that, I had an older brother.  He’s dead now.”  When M didn’t react, just continued waiting expectantly, he continued, saying, “He thought he could outsmart anyone, and for a while, he did.  The problem was that he got too confident.  He asked me to help him get out of trouble.  I did exactly as he asked and I failed because the other man outsmarted _me_.  Please forgive me then, if I was unwilling to take that risk a second time.”

There was silence when he’d finished.  He could tell that M, and possibly Mallory, were now gauging his competence to even do his job without freezing up during a mission.  He’d completed all the necessary psych evaluations, and had erased all traces of Sherrinford Holmes before joining MI6 as well as Sherlock Holmes, to maintain as much cover as possible.

Well, enough to keep his mother from becoming suspicious.  Minerva Holmes, a former government employee herself, would have caught on if Sherrinford had stopped emailing her.  He'd needed Mycroft's support in keeping silence and maintaining the illusion that Q still worked for Mycroft, which meant discounting MI6's story that Q had died in the crash of a small, chartered plane. Q suspected he'd get unceremoniously hauled back home by the collar if his mother knew what he'd gotten himself into lately. Well, him and Sherlock would be hauled home, especially since Sherlock accidentally revealed himself to Mycroft at Q's funeral. 

Sherlock had mentioned that Mycroft took news of Sherlock’s survival rather well, but Q didn't believe him.

“Your dedication is to be admired.  However, there is always the possibility that if you had not acted according to plan, you would have the deaths of more agents on your hands,” M said finally.  “You may still yet, that list is still missing and we have twenty or so agents still out there that cannot be recalled because that will definitely blow their covers.  With Silva in captivity, we had a better chance of figuring out the location of the list.”

“If we’re hypothesizing here, I’d also like to point out, ma’am, that we had an equal chance of being led into a second trap if he was interrogated.  I acknowledge that I made a grievous mistake of hooking Silva’s computer up to the MI6 mainframe, and now I know better, but that was the computer’s whole purpose.  To release Silva, nothing else,” Q countered, wondering how thin the ice was becoming now.  He knew when he was bordering insubordination; he’d constantly toed the line under Mycroft’s employ. 

“What makes you so sure that was the whole purpose of the computer?” Mallory asked, frowning slightly.

“I took the opportunity during M’s absence to examine it further, and that was the only program on it.  Somewhere out there, I believe the list is stashed in an isolated server or a network that I’d need to be present at in order to access,” Q explained patiently.  “Or, if you’re in that much doubt about my abilities, you can always send R or someone else.”  He decided not to mention his qualms about flying; he needed to stay in M's favor. 

“I suppose Bond could escort you back to the island he was taken to after Macau,” M remarked thoughtfully, leaning back in her chair.

Before Q could utter a squawk in protest – _did she really want him dead that much?? –_ Mallory spoke up, saying, “I would do that too, if I wanted my quartermaster dead before he returned to England.”

“Well, good thing he isn’t your quartermaster,” M said, looking faintly annoyed.  “Bond knows when restraint is necessary.”

“Knowing when restraint is necessary and actually practicing that are two, very different things, ma’am.  Even when I was still R, I could see he had difficulty with the latter,” Q said quickly, trying not to fidget from anxiety.  Being trapped in a plane was one thing, being trapped with a pissed off 00 agent was another, but being trapped in a plane with a pissed off 007 was something else entirely. 

Especially since Q had collaborated with Doctor O’Reilly, the head of Medical, to get 007 out of the building and seeing a doctor at this time so that he couldn’t sit in on the quartermaster’s hearing, and subsequently take his own (hopefully only) verbal shots at the quartermaster.

“Regardless, your performance within the first six months as quartermaster leaves something to be desired,” M said coldly. 

 _Here it comes,_ Q thought grimly, mentally bracing himself for the verdict.

“However, may God rest his soul, Boothroyd saw something in you that led him to select you as his successor,” M said, catching Q off guard with the name of his mentor.  “Even now, it appears that I must do what I’ve always done and trust his judgment.  I am placing you under indefinite probation.  You must have a senior analyst or two present with you each time you are running a field mission, as well as an escort while you are not within SIS headquarters.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Q replied, trying not to let his relief show. 

“This of course will start the moment you leave this office.  Eve Moneypenny will be your escort once she returns from her trip with Bondn to St. Bartholomew’s,” M said, leaning back.

“Of course, ma’am.” Somehow, Q just knew that attempting to duck out of working in the SIS headquarters just to avoid Moneypenny would place him under further scrutiny.  This entire venture would put his personal-space vacuum at risk; Moneypenny was notoriously curious about what other departments got up to, and there was always the constant risk that Bond would hover around her as usual. 

“Why is Agent Double-oh seven at St. Bart’s?  Doesn’t MI6 have its own medical center?” Reardon asked, speaking up for the first time as a faint expression of confusion crossed her face. 

“Yes, but I suspect that O’Reilly has reached the end of his tolerance for Bond, and the Quartermaster was only too happy to help arrange an appointment with a doctor I hope was cleared beforehand,” M said, glancing pointedly at Q, who mentally cringed.  He made a note to himself never to underestimate her again.

“It was an ideal win-win situation ma’am,” he said instead.  Leaning forward, he added, “If I may?”

“Go right ahead,” M said, watching him carefully.

“As experienced as Miss Moneypenny is at, er, watching people, I feel that her presence in Q-Branch may be distracting for the others, seeing as she did shoot James Bond and live to tell about it,” Q said, silently pleased with himself for keeping his calm.  “If it was possible to have someone less high-profile, that would be preferable.”

“Excellent idea.  The double-ohs receive stealth training, and it just so happens that Bond will be grounded anyway for medical recovery,” M said.  “This also means you can keep your secretary,” she said, glaring at Mallory, who remained expressionless. 

“Ma’am,” Q said, not caring for a minute that he technically had no authority to speak at the moment.  “If Moneypenny is a distraction, then Bond will only put all my teams on edge.  A trained killer hanging around in the same area where we develop and _test_ explosives?  We may have had reinforced the walls and infrastructure around Q-Branch in the reconstruction, but they’re not _that_ good.”

“Quartermaster, it’s almost as though you’re questioning the slap on the wrist I just gave you.  Am I correct?” M asked, narrowing her eyes at him.

A major difference between Q and Sherlock was that Q actually backed off when he was supposed to.

“No ma’am, my apologies,” Q mumbled, looking down so that he did not have eye contact with M.

“Didn’t think so.  Now, Moneypenny will deliver Bond to you, and then will return to her duties with _you_ ,” she said, turning to face Mallory, who nodded.  Turning back to Q, she said, “I expect that you will make retrieving the list of those agents your top priority.  I’d like an initial assessment of whether Silva left it behind on that island and if not, where.  Then we will deploy a double-oh to investigate and bring back the data if necessary.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Good.”  M narrowed her eyes and said, “Dismissed, Quartermaster.”

Q nodded before scrambling to his feet and leaving the room altogether.

* * *

“Status report, please,” Q said as he walked calmly back into Q-Branch as though he’d never left in the first place. 

“Bond and Miss Moneypenny have met up with the doctor, the three of them are apparently out for lunch,” R said cheerfully from his station.  Arching an eyebrow, he said, “Apparently Bond already knew the doctor from somewhere else?”

“That’s why I picked him.  It was a shot in the dark, but one worth pursuing,” Q replied as he assumed his own station, pulling up the CCTV images of the café near St. Bart’s.   He knew he probably took his brother’s last requests a little too seriously, but given the recent news from Sherlock, he was just being careful.  He needed a backup plan in case he was unable to watch Doctor Watson, and he knew that Bond would be grounded until O’Reilly gave the final clearance for a mission; a little quid pro quo could work there.  Sitting down, he closed down the CCTV images, it wouldn’t do for Bond to notice that, and reopened Q-Branch’s latest project, just reviewing the codes that his minions had been tackling while he was in the meeting with M.  “I’m assuming that everyone has left for lunch?” he asked, looking up and finally noticing the numerous empty tables save for five or six people.

“Yes, sir.  Doctor O’Reilly dropped by, looking for you, but I told him you wouldn’t be back until later,” R said, glancing up at Q, who sighed.

“No doubt he’s wanting his paperwork back.  Would you mind stopping by St. Bart’s again to pick those up?  Preferably after Bond and Doctor Watson have left.  I don’t want anyone to recognize you later,” Q said as he reached for his empty Scrabble mug.  It had been a gift from Sherlock, sent anonymously of course, as a nod toward Q’s childhood nickname and a motivator for Q to reach the post of Quartermaster.  “Oh, and R?  A quick word, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course, sir.” R paused the decoding program he was working on and came over.  “What is it, sir?”

“I need you to be on stand-by for when we find that list of missing agents.  M thinks Silva might continue to use it, and she wants me to pinpoint it before that happens.  Unfortunately, any form of retrieval will most likely involve flying,” Q said, trying to repress the shudder that came with the memories. 

“And you want me to go in that case?” R asked, tilting his head slightly.

“ _Please_.”

R nodded.  “Very well, sir, I’ll take care to remember,” he said before retreating to his corner of Q-Branch.

Q nodded, and then reached for his own project when his phone beeped with an incoming text message.  “Oh, what _now?_ ” he muttered to himself, pulling the phone out and entering the passcode.  The text message read:

_Busy tomorrow night? –MH_

Q had the brief momentary panic that it was Mycroft calling him (he would never lose that bit of paranoia), but then remembered that Molly Hooper just happened to have similar initials to Mycroft.  ‘ _Depends_ , _who’s asking?’_ he texted back before stowing the phone away into his jacket pocket. 

Molly Hooper.  Perhaps his only friend at the moment, ever since Sherlock sucked out all possibility of a social life.  Not that he had one to begin with.  Ever since the Fall, she’d been wrestling with extreme guilt ever time she saw John, and admitted she’d almost confessed once, on the second-year anniversary of the Fall.  She’d only held back because Sherlock had dropped by unexpectedly the night before, but the guilt remained.  Q visited her once a week for dinner, just so she could have some company and so she would know that despite their busy lives, she wasn’t forgotten either.  Q had something of an estranged relationship with John, something that was more nonexistent than anything else. 

_Beep!_

Frowning, Q pulled the phone out of the drawer to see that Molly had replied.   She’d sent: _My dad.  Family problems. –MH_

Which meant that Sherlock was having problems with Mycroft.  Again.  He could only imagine the difficulty Sherlock was having coordinating between the three of them, when Q knew that Sherlock was alive, and Sherlock knew that Q was alive, but Mycroft only knew that Sherlock had faked his death and Q was the dead one.  Which was too bad, Q had always wondered what the three of them were capable when they were functioning as a single unit. 

Lifting the phone, he texted back, _Where?_

The response was immediate.  _Emerald Lion, that pub near my flat.  Dad doesn’t want to go too far. –MH_

Q frowned.  _He’s in town now?_

_He needs another tool? –MH_

Q sighed, but was thankful anyway that he’d been prepared for this outcome for once.  Sherlock, thankfully, did not burn through weapons as fast as certain double-ohs did, but now that Q had more access into MI6, discreetly acquiring weaponry was easier.  This would be the third time he’d be replacing something that Sherlock either lost or broke, but it was definitely better than 007’s fiftieth (or was he exaggerating things out of sheer frustration with the man?) gun or whatever it was he lost.  There was still a running contest in Q-Branch to create something that Bond couldn’t destroy or lose, even though it had been a year since Q’s predecessor started it in an attempt to boost morale.  At least Sherlock still had the radio he’d started out with.

Q had also managed to finally secure a Browning.  Granted, he’d requisitioned it out under his name, pretending to need it for himself, but he’d encoded it to Sherlock’s handprint. 

_Will do.  Emerald Lion, tomorrow night.  Sound good?_

Pulling up the CCTV footage while he waited for Molly’s reply, he noticed that Bond and Moneypenny had finally left the café, and John was heading back to Baker Street, no doubt to take care of Gladstone and keep Mrs. Hudson company for a little while.  Moneypenny and Bond were predictably heading to the Tube, no doubt heading back to SIS headquarters.  Bond was scowling faintly at the display of his (shockingly intact) phone, and Q suspected he’d just gotten his orders from M about the babysitting assignment.  This was going to be a lovely probation; it would certainly be effective in convincing Q never to disobey orders again. 

Q’s phone buzzed again, and he looked down and read: _Tomorrow evening sounds lovely.  –MH._

He sighed, stowing the phone away.  He’d better get back to work, not give M any more excuses, and give his branch some warning about the future, unexpected, tetchy semi-permanent resident here.


	4. Chapter 4

After a long afternoon at the clinic, John was more than ready to head back home.

After lunch with James and Eve, he’d gone back to Baker Street to have an early tea with Mrs. Hudson and walk Gladstone.  James hadn’t elaborated on the nature of his current job at lunch, but had promised details tomorrow night when the three got together for drinks.  Mrs. Hudson, during tea, had offered to make dinner that night, and even asked that John find Molly Hooper and ask her if she’d like to have dinner with the two of them. 

“Cassidy, I’m leaving for the day,” John said as he walked past her desk, trying to pull on his coat and hold onto his bag at the same time.  “I’ll be back same time tomorrow morning.”

“Yeah- sir, please hold on a moment, I need to give the doctor here some paperwork before he goes,” Cassidy said to the anxious young man standing in front of her desk.  “Please wait over-”

“No, I really need the files right now,” the man interrupted, glancing at John for a moment before turning back to Cassidy.  “My boss-”

“ _One moment please,_ sir!  We can’t release patient information to anyone!  Do you have a written note from your boss?” Cassidy snapped, startling the man into silence.  When he mutely shook his head, she said, “Well then, let me finish up here and then I’ll schedule an appointment to speak with the doctor who checked your patient over.”  Turning to John, she said, “Sorry, Doctor Watson.  Here are the copies of the completed prescription forms that you requested,” and handed over the forms in question.  “Miss Morstan will come back in two days to discuss the exam results, and Mr. Whishaw made the appointment as requested for _his_ follow-up,” she added, leaning back in her chair.  Nodding to the newcomer, she said, “He claims to work for Doctor O’Reilly, and wants a copy of Whishaw’s files from today.”

Tucking the envelope of the form copies, John offered his hand, saying, “I’m Doctor John Watson, I checked over Mr. Whishaw earlier today.”

“Riley Williams.  I work for Doctor O’Reilly at the Royal London Hospital, I was the one who dropped the files off earlier this morning,” Williams said, accepting the handshake.  “Doctor O’Reilly is very meticulous about his records, and he’s going to want the notes from today’s visit when he gets back.”

“Where is he?” John asked, already wary because James was under a pseudonym while in O’Reilly’s care, and John knew when to recognize a potentially bad situation when he saw the signs.

“He’s in Chicago for a medical conference, he will return some time next week.  I mean, I’m the assistant,” Williams said, smiling slightly. 

John nodded.  “Have him call me when he gets back,” he said, noting the slight fall in Williams’ expression.  “It’s not that I don’t believe you, I do, it’s that I can’t release confidential patient information to anyone except the other physician and with the patient’s permission,” John replied.  “These are simple safety concerns.”  He didn’t understand why James appeared with a pseudonym, but he suspected caution would be best.

Williams looked torn between panic and exasperation. “So even if Doctor O’Reilly requests the files, and Mr. Whishaw doesn’t give permission, O’Reilly doesn’t get them?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Exactly.”

Williams sighed.  “All right then, I’ll tell him.”  Flashing a smile at Cassidy, he winked and said, “Hope the business card’s helpful, feel free to call if you need… anything at all.”

Cassidy raised an eyebrow and said, “Don’t hold your breath.”

Williams nodded before scuttling out of the clinic’s waiting room.

Cassidy shook her head in slight dismay.  “He was perfectly fine this morning when he came to drop Mr. Whishaw’s paperwork off.  Makes you wonder if someone traumatized him during the day or he suddenly remembered that there was such thing as a ‘woman’ in the world,” she remarked after Williams shut the door behind him.  Glancing back at John, she said, “Will you need anything else?”

“No.  Have a nice evening, Cassidy,” he said, nodding briefly to her before turning to leave.

“You as well, Doctor Watson.”

Outside was cold.  Pulling up his jacket collar, he limped slightly toward the curb and stepped out far enough to try and hail a cab: if there were one thing he’d never been able to learn from Sherlock, it would be to instantaneously summon a cab.  He was waiting, trying not to shiver, when he heard a timid “John?”

Startled, he turned to find Molly Hooper standing there, wearing a thicker coat over her usual lab coat.  Her bag was hanging over her shoulder, and she looked exhausted.  John wondered if that was a usual thing for her now, the two hadn’t seen each other very much since Sherlock’s death as though they’d been subconsciously avoiding each other.  “Molly, how are you doing?” he asked, taking note of her skinny figure; the stress was beginning to take its toll on her.

She gave a half-hearted shrug.  “Oh, I’m doing all right, I suppose,” she said, clutching the bag strap tighter.  “It’s quiet down in the morgue.  Well, I mean obviously it’s quiet because there’s only dead people down there, but-”

“Sherlock’s not down there creating his usual racket?” John guessed with a sad smile.

Molly nodded with a rueful smile.  “Your cab is here,” she said, nodding to the cab that had pulled up to the curb.

“Do you want to have dinner with us?  Mrs. Hudson wants to see you again,” John said, remembering Mrs. Hudson’s words from earlier that day.

Molly offered a sad smile.  “Thank you, but I really don’t want to impose,” she said.

“I insist, Mrs. Hudson really wants to see you again,” John repeated.

Molly glanced around anxiously, and then nodded.  John stepped back to let her into the cab first, and then he got in after her.  “221 Baker Street, please,” he said to the cabbie, who nodded before slipping out into traffic.  “What have you been up to lately?” he asked, and Molly shrugged.

“Just work, really.  Lestrade, from the Yard, you remember him, he comes for tea every Friday afternoon.  I think we both need the company,” she said.  “I also met this other nice man at Tesco’s by accident, he helped me get something off a high shelf.  His name was Quinn Winchester, it’s all right if you don’t know him-”

“Actually, believe it or not, I do know him, he lives at Baker Street in the third flat.  Black messy hair and glasses?” John asked.

He smiled when Molly’s face lit up.  “Oh!  Yes, that’s him!  He lives at Baker Street?  I didn’t know that, he didn’t say,” she said.  “Anyway, he and I met at Tesco’s, and we talked for a little while.  Did you know he met Sherlock once?” she asked, glancing nervously at John.

John blinked.  “Actually, I didn’t know that.  When did they meet?” he asked.

“Um, a while ago, Sherlock was on vacation and he was still at uni.  They met in the French Riviera, it was a brief meeting but memorable enough for Quinn,” Molly said, wringing her hands in her lap.  She hesitated, and then said, “Are you sure it’s okay for me to come?”

“Yes,” John said firmly.  Glancing at her pale expression, he said, “I don’t know if you remember from the funeral, but Mrs. Hudson did say you were welcome to come by whenever you wanted without calling ahead.”

“I know.  I’ve been very busy lately.  Mr. Holmes checks on me every other week, just to make sure I’m doing all right.  He’s… stressed, to say the least.”  She looked up at John.  “Has he talked to you recently?”

“No, he’s left me alone ever since Sherlock died,” John said.  “And I’m grateful for that.  I understand that even though the two brothers never got along, it’s still not a good reason to sell Sherlock out like the way he did.”

“From what I understand, based off what little Mr. Holmes told me, it was a little more complicated than that,” Molly said carefully, fiddling with her purse clasp. 

John nodded as the cab pulled up to 221 Baker Street.  “Do you think I should talk to Mycroft about it then?” he asked as he handed the cab fare to the driver before getting out after Molly. 

“It’s up to you, Mr. Holmes didn’t seem to think it was important anymore, especially since been so long since, you know, Sherlock died,” Molly said as John unlocked the door, her voice tripping up a little near the end of her sentence.

“Good point.  Mrs. Hudson, I’m back!  Molly’s here too!” John called down the hall.

“Molly!  It is so good to see you dear,” Mrs. Hudson said, coming out of her flat with Gladstone at her heels.  “John, poor Gladstone was kicking up such a fuss when I returned from Mrs. Turner’s next door.  I went upstairs to check up on him and I think the poor dear was lonely because he quieted down as soon as I opened the door,” she said as Molly knelt to greet an enthusiastic Gladstone. 

“Well, I did walk him after tea, you remember that,” John said as Mrs. Hudson began ushering the two of them into her flat.  “He seemed fine then.”

“I know, I’m telling you what happened, dear,” Mrs. Hudson said, closing the door to her flat after Gladstone.  “I hope everyone is hungry, I made some old favorites.”

“That sounds wonderful, Mrs. Hudson,” Molly said, hanging up her coat.  “I trust you are well?”

“As well as can be expected.  I’m hoping you will tell me what you’ve been up to, dear.  It’s been so long since you were last here,” Mrs. Hudson replied cheerfully as she brought out the last serving plate. 

“She knows Mr. Winchester, they’ve met recently by chance,” John supplied from where he was checking Gladstone over, in case the puppy had gotten into some mischief he didn’t know about yet. 

“Oh really?  I did try to get him to come home for dinner tonight, called him up a little while after you left.  He said he was going to be too busy working to come,” Mrs. Hudson said, shaking her head in dismay.  “If I knew where he worked, I’d send him something to eat.  Who knows how often he has a chance to?”

“Well, he did tell me that he works as the head of the IT Department at Universal Exports,” Molly supplied helpfully as Mrs. Hudson gestured for the two of them to sit before sitting down herself.  “Mostly he makes sure everything continues running smoothly.”

“I actually ran into an old army friend today, he said he works at Universal Exports as well.  Chances are they know each other,” John said, moving to assist Mrs. Hudson with serving.

“Oh really?  Who?” Mrs. Hudson asked, pausing to look inquiringly at him.  “Are you going to have him over to visit sometime?”

“Is he single?” Molly blurted out.

John laughed.  “Sorry Molly, I don’t think he’s your type.  He travels frequently,” he said, and Molly shrugged in reply. 

“What’s his name though?” Mrs. Hudson asked.

“James Bond, he was a commander in the Royal Navy when we first met, while I was still in Afghanistan.  The Taliban had ambushed some Western-friendly ports and took James along with a few other officers in hopes of using them as bargaining chips,” John explained.  “James being James, well, he pretty much got himself and his fellow captives free and to make a long story short, they arrived to our camp right as we got the orders to go retrieve them.  He never said exactly how they escaped, but did say it was a bit explosive.  We couldn’t leave camp anyway though, there were a few injured hostages and myself and two other doctors didn’t want to risk infection.  We ended up having a few missions together, and kept in touch after that, up until late 2005 anyway.  He dropped completely off the map after taht, today was the first time I’d seen him in years.”

“How did the two of you run into each other today?” Molly asked curiously.

“He showed up as one of my patients.  His usual physician, Doctor O’Reilly, is out of the country right now, so he scheduled an appointment at St. Bart’s.  Or rather someone else did; O’Reilly’s associate handled all the matters,” John replied as they ate.  “I think we were both surprised to see each other.”

“Well, you should bring him over here sometime, dear.  He certainly sounds like a nice man,” Mrs. Hudson said.  “And it is so nice to see you smiling again.”  She paused, and then asked, “Were you two ever-”

“Ah, no, not like that,” John replied.  “We were just friends, nothing like that.”

“There’s nothing wrong with that dear, I was curious,” Mrs. Hudson replied innocently with a smile.  “Now-”

_Bang!_

Everyone jumped at the sound of the outside door slamming shut.  John reflexively reached for a gun that wasn’t there, but then quickly stood up.  “I’ll go see what that was,” he said, moving toward the door that would lead into the front hall, mentally prepared for anything.

Well, anything other than what was actually there.

Quinn Winchester was slumped against the main door, his back pressed against the wood as he tried to catch his breath, a half-crazed look in his eye.  His hair was more of a mess than usual, and his glasses were slipping off his face.  When he spotted John staring at him, he gave a weak, apologetic smile and then said, “Sorry… for slamming the door like that.”

“Quinn!” Mrs. Hudson exclaimed from behind John.  “Oh you poor dear, what happened?” she asked stepping around John in order to fuss with the younger man.

“A combination of irritating coworkers and bad karma that proved to be more than I could handle for today,” Winchester said, pulling himself to his feet.  He patted Mrs. Hudson’s arm reassuringly before saying, “Don’t worry, I was going to grab something quick to eat before turning in for the night.”

“Nonsense, please join us, it’s not hard to pull up a fourth chair,” Mrs. Hudson said before turning back and disappearing into her flat before Winchester could say anything.

“ ‘Fourth’?” he repeated, looking completely bewildered at John.

“Molly Hooper is here as well, she and I met through my former flatmate,” John said by way of explanation.

Winchester nodded in reply, still trying to catch his breath.  He frowned thoughtfully, and then asked, “Doctor Watson, you’re an expert on the law, correct?”

“Relatively speaking.”  John had learned most of the laws by breaking them with Sherlock, but he most certainly wasn’t going to admit that much to Winchester.  “Why do you want to know?”

“I was just curious as to how long I’d go to prison for murdering a colleague, determine whether it would be worth it or not,” Winchester replied with a perfectly calm expression.

John stared at him, trying to determine if the other man was joking or not.  “Well, I suspect you’d be in prison for a very long time after a jury found you guilty,” he finally said.

Winchester mulled over the answer for a few moments before asking, “What if hypothetically I was doing several, very influential people a favor by murdering this colleague, who also happens to be the biggest prat on this side of the Atlantic?”

John raised an eyebrow.  How was it he always managed to have weird conversations with the most unlikely people when he least expected it?  “Um, well, I guess it depends on who you’re angering, really,” he said, carefully choosing an answer that wouldn’t accidentally encourage Winchester to go ahead with his plans in the event that the other man was serious. 

Winchester, surprisingly, nodded in agreement.  “Just as well, I think he’d murder me before I ever got close enough to scratch one of his bloody suits… unless… unless I took a different approach to the problem…” he said, the exhaustion draining out of his eyes as new plans took formation.

“Boys!  Come back, supper is still on the table,” Mrs. Hudson said, swooping in at that moment and ushering the two men back into her flat.  “Quinn, John was telling us about an old army friend of his,” she said, nudging Winchester into a seat between her and Molly, across the small table from John.

“Really?  I didn’t even know you served in the army,” Winchester said, glancing over at John.  “What unit?”

“Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers,” John replied.  “Served in Afghanistan for a while.  I think you know this friend of mine though, James Bond?  He said he works at Universal Exports as well,” he said before Winchester could change the topic. 

Winchester scrunched his face in annoyance.  “I've heard of him, but we don't talk very much.  Which is understandable, I’m usually stuck in the IT department and don’t socialize with people from any other department except Accounting, they’re forever needing assistance,” he said, shrugging apologetically.  “But why did you leave the army?” he asked.

“I was shot in the shoulder and I have a psychosomatic limp,” John replied.  “Usually I’m fine but the limp’s been coming back.”

“Oh no!” Molly exclaimed.  “What was the key to getting rid of it before?”

John shrugged.  “Mycroft Holmes seemed to think that it was because I was too conditioned to the battlefield and missed it.  I think it might have been something else.”

Winchester shook his head.  “If I were you, I wouldn’t trust Mr. Holmes’s analysis.  He is a politician, where words are weapons and Parliament is the battlefield,” he said, sitting straighter in his seat.  He added, “In all the time I’ve known Mr. Holmes, I have only ever seen him fire a gun once, and it actually belonged to his bodyguard.”

“That’s right, you used to work for him.  Where did Anthea keep the gun?” John asked.

Winchester smirked.  “It wasn’t Anthea, it was Lieutenant Falsworth, the other one.  Mr. Holmes only brings him out when he’s dealing with either large crowds or people that he knows hate him.  The one time he fired a gun, he did it to make a point to MI5 Director Farrows,” he said, unable to suppress a grin.  “Best day of my life, you wouldn’t have thought that a man that old could jump that high, I’d thought he’d be used to gunshots at that point in his career.”

“And MI5 is… international security?” John asked.

“No, that’s MI6 you’re thinking of.  MI5 handles domestic concerns, they only go beyond England’s borders when the situation demands for it or it’s a collaboration with MI6,” Winchester replied.

“How do you know all of this?” Molly asked.

“I used to work for Mr. Holmes as his security chief until Universal Exports gave me a better offer,” Winchester replied.

“Was this before or after you disappeared for a week?  What happened then?” Mrs. Hudson asked worriedly.

“Long story short, I got overconfident and underestimated the tenacity of several well-connected individuals.  It won’t happen again,” Winchester replied, winking conspiratorially at Molly, who grinned.  Turning to John, he said, “The colleague that I mentioned earlier is a human tornado that breaks things at his leisure, and that’s one of few reasons we don’t get along very well.”  He shook his head.  “But enough about that, what I do is actually pretty boring, the colleague being the exception.”

“Well, maybe you can meet John’s friend then, socialize a little more.  I worry about you sometimes.  You are either at work or holed up in your flat.  How are you ever going to find someone?  Maybe having a friend at work might make that colleague a little more bearable to deal with,” Mrs. Hudson said.  “I am almost absolutely sure you are getting skinnier.  Wait right here, I’m going to get more food,” she said before bustling off into the kitchen.

For a moment, no one said anything.  Then Molly asked, “So, um, other than the colleague, how was your day?”

“Nothing of note happened,” Winchester calmly replied as he took a sip of water that Mrs. Hudson had given him earlier.  “I may have to leave the country to help install some equipment in the next few weeks, but I’m hoping that it will be taken care of before it comes down to that, I do not want to fly anywhere.”

“Expensive tickets?” John asked.

Winchester shook his head, looking a little pale.  “No, but rather-”

_Brring!_

“Ah, sorry, that would be me,” Winchester said, standing up.  “My apologies.”  Pulling his phone out and walking a little ways from the table, he said, “Hello?”  John watched as a pinched expression crossed his face, and then he said, “That… that is rather vexing.  Do try not to lose him, I’ll be back in a few minutes.” Hanging up, he said, “Mrs. Hudson, I’m really sorry but I have to go back into the office, we’ve come across a little trouble.  Thank you for dinner and again, I’m really sorry that I couldn’t stay longer-”

“Oh no you don’t,” Mrs. Hudson said, promptly returning with a Tupperware container.  “You are going to give me back an empty container because you are going to eat _everything_ in it.  You’re skinny as a rail and I hardly ever see you eat,” she said, ignoring Winchester’s sputtering protests as she spooned food into the container.  “ _Please_ take care of yourself,” she said, handing the container over to him after snapping the lid on.

“Of course, thank you Mrs. Hudson.  I’ll be quiet when I come back.  Good night.  Doctor Watson, Doctor Hooper,” Winchester said before disappearing out of the flat.

“Well, I swear I don’t know what he’s up to sometimes.  I visited him in his flat the other day and the flat was an absolute mess!  He tinkers with electronics, and he’s so good at it,” Mrs. Hudson said, shaking her head sadly.  “It was almost like… like Sherlock was back!” she said, pressing her handkerchief to her nose and eyes.

“Shh, Mrs. Hudson, it’s all right, it’s all right, we miss him too,” John said, reaching over and pulling her into a hug. 

They both missed the guilty expression that crossed Molly’s face.

 


	5. Chapter 5

Q wanted nothing more than to return home, crawl under the covers and not come out for at least a week.

“And for God’s sake, don’t blow anything up overnight.  I’d like to maintain the illusion that we can have something of a life outside work,” he said to a disgruntled R over the phone.  “Yes, yes, I know it’s a pain that we can’t do any testing until _after_ Bond has left the building, but believe me, I feel more comfortable about it when I know he isn’t there,” he added as he climbed out of the cab in front of the Emerald Lion.  He could already hear the loud conversations from inside way out here, and he resisted the urge to take off again.  Besides, Molly was standing near the door, looking downright scared… which Q interpreted as that something was about to go terribly wrong or it had already happened and Sherlock was inevitably involved somehow.  “Listen, I have to go now.  Do not call me except for emergencies,” he said, cutting R off.  “Yes, yes, good night.”  With that, he hung up, handed the fare over to the irritated cabbie, and then walked toward Molly.  He was careful to keep the silver case underneath his arm and out of sight.

“Quinn, we have a problem,” she blurted out before Q could greet her.

 _Of course we do_.  “How bad of a problem are we talking?” he asked, hoping it wasn’t as bad as the latest mission screw-up that he’d spent all day untangling.  Italian mob bosses apparently got tetchy when Double-Os were caught infiltrating their organizations.  Luckily, 006 hadn’t minded the unplanned excursion through the southern Italian countryside.  “Please tell me that our friend didn’t leave any bodies somewhere hard to clean up without getting caught,” he said, lowering his voice as a couple walked past the two of them.

“No, he hasn’t been out since he got here.  Well, he did once, pretended to be a cabbie yesterday and took John and me to Baker Street, but that’s not the problem,” Molly said, keeping her voice down while she tried to focus on Q but failed miserably, jumping at every small noise.  “John’s here.  In the pub.  With friends.  A man and a woman, they saw me and John introduced us-”

“Molly,” Q patiently interrupted.  “It will be _fine_ , we have every right to be here as well, and they don’t own the pub.  If anything, it should be our friend Henry who should be worried.”  He started to go in, but then paused at the threshold.  “Out of curiosity, who are his friends with him?” he asked, wondering if John had started to repair his relationship with Detective Inspector Lestrade, not only would it help both men, but it would make Q’s job of watching them easier.

“James Bond and Eve Moneypenny,” Molly replied nervously.

 _Of course_.

Q groaned, palming his forehead in frustration.  He’d forgotten that he’d reunited them.  John, he could easily keep secrets from.  Bond was a completely different story, given that he’d been trained to spot the tactics that Q was going to use to fool John.  This was going to be interesting.  “Okay, I take back what I said earlier.  Henry and I both will be screwed if we don’t play our cards right,” he said, glancing at a pale Molly.  “But you’ll be fine.  Henry and I will just have to improvise.   Whatever he concocts, just play along.”

She stared at him.  “Have you two had to do this before?” she asked in a whisper as he stepped back from the door to let some people through. 

“You may have worked with Sherlock in the professional sense, but you have to remember, I grew up with him,” Q said before entering the pub, Molly right behind him.

It was loud, noisy and _packed_.

Silently cursing Sherlock for choosing _here_ of all places to meet, Q began picking his way through the thick crowds, Molly clutching to the back of his jacket to prevent separation.  Bond was easy to spot and avoid, and Q gave him a _wide_ berth even though he was absolutely sure the agent saw him coming inside.  Q pretended to not notice him at all, instead focusing on the ginger-haired man sitting alone at a table toward the back with three drinks already there.

If possible, Sherlock looked thinner than Q remembered.  He was wearing a jacket, jeans, and a cap he’d pulled down slightly in an attempt to mimic an American.  It half-worked, but Sherlock’s posture was still as regal as if he’d been at home instead of a crowded pub on a Friday night.  “Evening,” he said as Molly sat down while Q pushed his feet off the other seat.  Leaning forward as Q sat down, he said, “John-”

“Is with friends, yes, I know.  Unfortunately, they also happen to be my coworkers, so I can’t stay for the usual catching up or they’ll suspect something… assuming they don’t already,” Q said, setting the silver case down on the table between them.  Mindful to keep his body between the case and John’s table, he added, “This may have to be quick, and you might have to leave alone.”

Sherlock frowned, and Q knew his proposal went against their usual ritual of planning and strategizing their next series of moves.  More often than not, Sherlock was out of touch, but the two still relied on communications to keep their plans synchronized.  It was especially critical since Q had more authorized access into MI6, and therefore knew where and when MI6 agents were at any given time.  So far, they’d been lucky that Sherlock hadn’t crossed paths with an undercover agent, but Q was still waiting for that one moment when a working agent mistook Sherlock for Q. 

That would be… awkward.

Sherlock almost put his hands up together in what had come to be his classic ‘thinking’ pose, but managed to catch himself in time.  “The man with John, military background, has at least two concealed weapons on his person right now but the broken arm will keep him from getting the one in his jacket, which unfortunately is his easiest weapon to access.  Given that he’s altered his position since you walked in so that he can still see the front door and you at the same time, he’s well aware of the importance that you carry at your job.  The woman has his back, but is at ease, no doubt assuming that he’s capable of handling any problems that I will undoubtedly present.  She has training background, but no longer an active agent; her firearm, while hidden, is out of immediate reach.  And John…” Sherlock sighed as he pinched the bridge of his nose.  “Of all the nights for him to be attentive…”

Q frowned.  “What is he doing?”

“He’s noticed the way his friend has changed position, and is aware of the fact that you could be in danger.  They’re still talking, but you’re in the line of sight of all three,” Sherlock said, looking between Molly and Q.  No doubt he was sneaking in glances while appearing to talk them both. 

“Should I just paint a bloody target on my back?” Q asked dryly.

“No, it might be too tempting for John’s friend.”  Leaning back, he added, “How… how has John been doing?”

“Better.  I thought it would be nice to have a friend or two back, so I sent Bond his way. They don’t know that I had a hand in their meeting, and I’d rather it stayed that way.  I don’t see a problem with keeping the secret because everyone won something that day.  John and Bond got to see each other after so long, O’Reilly got to have Bond receive medical attention without a fuss, I got Bond out of the way so I could have my meeting with M in peace, and Eve got a free lunch.”  Spreading his hands out, Q said, “Everyone wins.”

“Has MI6 noticed the siphoning of their supplies yet?” Sherlock asked, nodding toward the silver case.

There was a momentary silence, and then Q shook his head.  “It’s gotten easier, but do try not to lose this one.  I had it requisitioned under my name so it’s registered to me, so for God’s sake don’t let someone steal it.  I would have tweaked it so that it would only acknowledge your palm-print, but I didn’t have sufficient data,” he said, keeping the case in front of his body as he opened it to show Sherlock the Browning.  As Sherlock took the gun, careful to keep it out of sight, Q glanced at Molly, who was pretending to be the snubbed girlfriend while really keeping an eye out for trouble.  “Have you heard anything that I should know about?” he asked, careful to keep his voice down.

Sherlock nodded grimly.  “There was a stir in the underworld recently, and all my work in the last three years almost completely unraveled when a man named Raoul Silva appeared as the new head of Moriarty’s crime network.  He’s a highly trained agent, I don’t know if you’ve ever heard of him.  As I’ve been purchasing information from an American gunrunner in the last two months, he said that after Moriarty disappeared the day I jumped, Raoul Silva had immediately seized control.  He lost it though, after some fiasco near Macau, and an American tried to take it over,” he said, frowning.  “The American’s body was found hanging off the _Pontio Vecchio_ a few days before I left Florence.  That was at least a month ago.”

Q quickly did the math.  Silva had disappeared in November, so perhaps it wasn’t a huge surprise that he’d been able to pick up the struggling remnants of Moriarty’s networks so fast.  “No, I have heard of him.  I thought you’d been making significant progress with the dismantling, what happened then?” he asked, squashing the twinge of guilt in his gut.

“I struck fast enough to start dismantling the network before Silva had a chance to build on it, and I hadn’t known about him at the time.  A year and a half into exile though, Silva apparently got distracted with pursuing an old vendetta when MI6 and the CIA destroyed one of his operations, which then enabled me to make a few connections with several of Silva’s insiders.  While at the time, I hadn’t know whom they worked for, two are dead now, unfortunately.  One was killed for supplying the names of Moriarty’s snipers, the other, a woman, died without explanation.  I don’t know where Silva is, but I worry he may pick up Moriarty’s plans and finish them,” Sherlock said quietly.

“Moriarty was the only one who had a quarrel with you,” Q pointed out.  “I can promise you that Silva couldn’t care less about the three.  If anything, _I_ should be worried about Silva, he and I went head-to-head several months ago after MI6 arrested him.”

Sherlock frowned.  “ _What?_ ” he said in a furious whisper, leaning in closer.

“I can’t talk about it here, too classified for an environment like this,” Q replied just as quietly.  “But the bottom line is I might have to face him again, he has something I need.”

“The list of undercover MI6 agents,” Sherlock guessed.  At Q’s stunned expression, he merely said, “Mycroft told me, asked me to keep an eye out for it.  I’ll give it to you though, I suspect Mycroft is going to use it to further his petty squabbles with your boss,” Sherlock said, disdain creeping into his voice at the thought of their older brother.

“I know that,” Q said, shutting the silver case and pulling it closer to himself.  “Do we still need to map out our next moves?”

“Yes, but not here, definitely not here,” Sherlock said as the crowd cheered at something on the television.  “I’d initially chosen here and now for the noise, less chance of being overheard, but if John’s here, that’s asking for trouble.  Out of Moriarty’s six snipers, two are still alive, one for Lestrade and John.”

“ _Six?_ ”

“Back-ups.  Moriarty wasn’t stupid.” 

“So what now?” Molly whispered, startling both brothers.  “Sorry, it’s just that Mr. Bond is making me a little nervous and I think they’re almost done.  John did say that they’d been there for a little while before I showed up.”

“And he’ll come after me once they finish,” Q said, rubbing his temples.  He was dreading the next part, primarily because he knew Sherlock liked authenticity when it came to their impromptu performances.  “He’s bloody persistent.”

“And a little too smart for a licensed killer.  This could be problematic.  I don’t want either of us to get arrested, me for possessing a MI6 registered weapon, you for treason,” Sherlock said, ignoring Molly’s confused glances between the two of them. “We could meet up at Molly’s flat, I won’t leave until after we’re done.”

“And I’m sticking any medical bills onto your tab,” Q warned.

“Lucky for me, because I think medical coverage was a part of your employee package,” Sherlock said, rolling up his sleeves.

Molly frowned.  “What are you two going on about _now_?  I swear I can’t understand your conversations half of the time,” she complained.

Q didn’t hear the response because next thing he knew, Sherlock’s fist was connecting with his nose.

* * *

“Get out, I don’t believe either of you.”

John merely spread his hands out in surrender.  “I’m just telling you what happened,” he said, grinning as he took another sip of his drink.

“Bear in mind, Eve, that I was drugged up on pain meds _and_ drunk, so don’t expect a repeat performance any time soon,” James said, smirking at Eve’s dismayed expression.  “Turned out that the reason doctors tell you not to drink and take prescription pain meds was a logical one.”

“I still can’t believe that Lewis didn’t catch the flask you’d hidden away,” John said, shaking his head in dismay, although he was still smiling at the memory.  The three of them were sitting near the entrance of the otherwise crowded pub, mostly because Eve claimed claustrophobia in crowds and didn’t want to be in the thick of things.  It turned out to be a good call, because as the night wore on, more and more people entered the place.  John mused that it was simply the hazards of coming here on a Friday night

“Oh no, he did.  Interns are easy to intimidate, no matter where you work,” James replied with a grin before taking a swallow.  He was still tense about being in a crowded environment, but other than that seemed at ease.

“You would know, you terrorize half of ours every day,” Eve said, rolling her eyes as she leaned back in her chair.

“Speaking of which, James, I did have a question since two days ago.  Why use a pseudonym on your medical files?” John asked before taking a sip.  “Is it work-related?”

James shrugged.  “To be honest, I didn’t even know O’Reilly had switched on me like that until the day of, I didn’t even see him that day,” he said. 

“Right, he’s in Chicago, I forgot that,” John said, leaning back in his chair.  He frowned when he saw Eve stare at him in confusion.  “What?”

“That can’t be right, the appointment was what, two days ago?  I saw O’Reilly that morning talking to my boss,” she said, placing her drink on the table as James paused.  “Then I saw him earlier today having a row with two of our coworkers.  I would have known if he was in Chicago, I usually track that sort of thing,” she said, glancing at James as though for confirmation.  “Who told you he was in Chicago?  I assure you that he hasn’t left London in two years,” she added, glancing back at John.

John frowned, and that niggling sense of wariness he’d gotten while talking to Williams yesterday gnawed at his thoughts.  “One of his assistants, a man named Riley Williams.  Around my height, looks a little like David Tennant?” he said, glancing between James and Eve.

James got it first, the recognition dawning on his face.  “I know whom you’re talking about, you didn’t give him anything, did you?” he asked, catching John’s gaze.

“No.  I told him that I’d take your information out of the system once I had your permission and spoke with O’Reilly myself,” John said, frowning.  “Why?”

James sighed, the tension draining from his body as Eve chuckled.  “Looks like the IT Department outsmarted you again, better luck next time,” she said with a smirk.  

“Riley Williams works in the IT Department at Universal Exports,” James explained, sighing as Eve struggled to keep in her laughter.  “All he needed really was to know where the files were stored.  The IT chief is a bad influence on the others in that regard, the little rats just hack to get what they want if it’s anywhere electronic.”

“Well, what a coincidence.   The IT chief happens to be my next-door neighbor,” John remarked dryly.  “Quinn Winchester, right?  Floppy black hair, glasses-”

“Looks like you could knock him over with one punch?  Yeah, that’s him,” James said.  “He doesn’t follow orders very well, but he’s damn good at his job, which is the only reason that he’s keeping it.”

John was about to reply when a flash of familiar brown caught his eye.  “Molly?” he blurted out, startling the mortician enough that she jumped when she turned and saw the three of them.  “Molly, what brings you here?” he asked as she slowly came closer to the table, warily regarding James as she did.

“Oh, um, just meeting Quinn for drinks, he invited me out earlier today.  I don’t think it’s anything serious, but he’s really nice and all, so I said yes,” Molly said, cheeks flushing pink as she stumbled over her words and fiddled with her coat clasps.  “Who are your friends?” she asked nervously.

“This is James Bond, and this is Eve Moneypenny,” John said, indicating each in turn.  “James, Eve, this is Molly Hooper, she works as a mortician at St. Bart’s,” he added, watching as Molly shook hands with James, who was sitting closest, and then shaking hands with Eve.  She seemed to grow even more anxious though, when John said, “They work at the same place as Quinn Winchester.”

“Really?  Oh, hi!  He’ll be surprised, I guess, when he gets here.  Have you been here long?” she asked.

John nodded as James said, “We’ll probably be leaving soon, but I at least wouldn’t mind sitting with you and Quinn for a quick chat.”

“Aw, that’s nice of you, but I might have to decline, we actually are meeting up with a friend for a little while first,” Molly said, quickly checking her watch before laughing.  “Well, Quinn’s almost here, I should probably go wait for him,” she said before turning and leaving the pub again.

“Is she usually that jumpy?” Eve asked as James turned back to the conversation. 

“No, she was only like that really around my old flatmate when he showed up at the morgue to work,” John said, rolling his eyes at James’s incredulous expression.  “He was a consulting detective, worked frequently with New Scotland Yard.”

Eve frowned. “Was he the one that…” she hesitated, but John could hear the unspoken question behind her silence.  He nodded in reply.

“Wait, when was this?” James asked, looking between the two of them. 

“You were out of town for most of it, I’ll tell you later,” Eve said, her mug pausing halfway to her mouth.  “Someone’s looking spiffy tonight,” she said, grinning slightly while nodding toward the door behind John.

Both John and James turned to see Quinn walking in, Molly close behind.  He had on his usual coat, and John could see that he was holding something tightly on the other side of his body from the three of them.  The pair made their way toward the back of the pub, where there was a ginger-haired man waiting somewhat impatiently for them.  Quinn sat down across from the man however, blocking him from John’s view.  “What do you think they’re talking about?” he asked, glancing at James.  Something about the convenient timing felt off.

“I don’t know, but regardless of what it is, Quinn is the priority here,” James said, frowning even more as Quinn leaned forward and began talking to the stranger.  To anyone else, Molly gave off an excellent impression of the snubbed girlfriend, but John, who could hear Sherlock rattling deductions off in the _way_ far back of his mind, could see the small tells – flickering eyes, fidgeting, et cetera – that perhaps the meeting wasn’t as innocent as Molly had initially claimed. 

“I can’t see what they’re doing here, you got anything?” Eve asked, straightening after leaning back in her chair to try and get another angle.

“If I had to guess, probably an exchange of some sort.  I still don’t know what exactly it was he did before coming to work at Universal Exports,” James said, frowning.

“I thought you hacked into my computer and found out,” Eve said, frowning.

“You forget who it is that has unlimited access into the personnel files and can change them,” James countered before turning back to John, but John could see that the man was careful to keep Quinn in view.  “Enough about him anyway, I deal with him enough as it is at work.”

“What is it exactly that you do?” John asked.  “I didn’t think you could sustain a broken arm, or anything else in your medical history, from working for a _shipping_ company.”

He saw the look that both James and Eve exchanged; it was quick enough for John to have missed it if he hadn’t been keeping an eye out for it.  “John… I know you hate being kept in the dark about these sorts of things,” James finally began, “But telling you is a decision that would impact more people than just the Eve, Quinn and me.  So I can’t exactly tell you.”

John nodded.  While his curiosity was piqued even more, he really couldn’t think of a job in a shipping company that required the necessity to carry firearms, he knew when to let the matter rest for the time being.  “Can I ask if it had to anything to do with the way you dropped completely off the radar around 2005, 2006?” he said, watching his friend carefully now.

James nodded.  “It had everything to do with that,” he replied.

John would have pursued the conversation further when there was an audible _crack,_ followed shortly by a _thunk_ and a dead silence.

Looking up and across the room, he saw that the crowd around Quinn’s table was staring at the ginger-haired man, who was standing up now, fist still raised in the air.  Molly had gone white in shock, frozen between staring at the unfamiliar man and someone- _Quinn_ , John realized-lying on the floor.  James meanwhile had frozen in his seat, but his hand was creeping for his jacket pocket.

“And _that_ is what I think of your pitiful offer, do I look like I’m made out of cash?” the man drawled in an American accent as he looked over the table at Quinn.  “I need the money to make a living, you ought to be shot for trying to cheat me with a little money for an expensive result,” he added before kneeling over Quinn for something in Quinn's hands--John couldn't see it from here--and began prying it free.

Mistake on his part.

Before anyone could react, Quinn suddenly shot forward up from the ground, his head connecting with the stranger’s with a muffled sound. 

That was when all hell broke loose. 

As the stranger reeled back in surprise, clutching his forehead, Quinn snatched the case and shouted, “Molly, _go!”_ before darting through the tables as the pub erupted into pandemonium.  John saw that the other man’s face was covered in red right before Quinn stumbled, trying to stop the bloody nose while escaping.  The chaos increased as the stranger suddenly pulled out a pistol and shot out the lights before the barman could reach the phone behind the counter.

Wishing he’d brought his Browning, John turned to James but found that the latter was handing him a smaller firearm, an unfamiliar model.  As people screamed and began evacuating the establishment, the three of them managed to slip outside relatively quickly, and John decided he’d be eternally grateful for James’s suggestion that they sit close to the door.  Once outside, he scanned the crowd, searching for the familiar mop of black hair or at least the ginger-haired American.  Either one would lead straight to the other.

Eve meanwhile seemed to be on the same line of thought.  “James, we have to find Quinn before he’s either killed or kidnapped,” she said, keeping her own firearm out of sight.  “Tanner will have our heads for this if something happens to him-”

“I just want to know what the hell he thought he was doing, selling like that to random strangers, what he was selling, and worse, putting his girl at risk like that,” James said as he made his way through the crowd, John at his side.  Pointing, he added, “And there they go.”

John looked up in time to see the tall American disappear around the corner up a ways.  “They’re friends, not dating,” he added as the three began heading in that direction.  At James’s incredulous expression, John added, “Quinn and Molly.  It’s important to know their relationship status because it determines how much at risk he’ll put himself in to keep her safe.  That’s a miscalculation that could end badly for him, and I thought you’d like to know since we’re making an effort to find him in one piece.”

“Good point.  Eve, who did you call?” James asked as the three headed down toward the deserted parts of the residential areas.  If a fight was truly about to break out, then John suspected that Quinn would draw the danger away from crowded areas, as hinted at by his last order to Molly.

“I called Riley, he’s working on finding Quinn as we speak.  I also asked him to keep it on the downside from Tanner and the boss for now, I wanted to get Quinn’s perspective on the issue first before accusations start flying.”  Eve paused at where the road split three ways, the night quieter now that they’d walked a ways from the pub.  “Damn, that kid is fast.”

“Well, we’re all armed, we could split up and meet back in five,” James said, scanning the area for any hints.  “Assuming of course that the American doesn’t have allies around…”

“I think between the three of us, we could take them.  Sherlock used to charge in without assessing the situation sometimes, wouldn’t even wait for the police to show up as reinforcements,” John said, glancing around.  “Any hints?”

“I’ll stay here, Riley still has me on the line,” Eve said, lowering her mobile enough to speak without confusing anyone. 

“Could you actually get the car?  I want to be able to leave this area as soon as possible, especially if it turns into a crime scene,” James said, grimacing as he slid the gun’s safety back on. 

“You used your bad arm, didn’t you?” John said, noting with a slight pang of dismay that James was favoring the right arm.  “I’ll need to check that over before you head back home.”

“Yeah, probab-”

_BANG! BANG!_

John turned sharply in the direction of the gunshot-to the right hand street before wordlessly taking off, James reacting a second later and promptly following.  Somewhere behind him, Eve was rattling off the street names to Riley over the mobile before she turned and headed back to get the car she and James had arrived in. 

Despite the fact there was always that animosity between them because of long-dead ghosts and painful memories on John’s part, John would never have wished for this sort of harm to reach Quinn.  He’d seen firsthand the result of shady deals gone wrong, and knew that if Quinn died tonight, then his family, assuming they were still out there, were not going to have a good morning when they received the news.  Lestrade had once remarked to John that one of the hardest parts of his job was calling in family members to the morgue to identify a corpse as belonging to someone related to them, and then standing by in silence as spouses broke down and parents remained stony-faced in an attempt to contain their grief.

The street that John and James turned on to was just as quiet as the others, but not deserted.  John felt his chest tighten when he saw a limp figure underneath a lamppost, curled into the fetal position in an effort to protect itself.

 _“Shit_ ,” James muttered under his breath before taking off again, and John kept close behind.  The litany of profanities continued as James skidded to a halt and knelt by the prone figure, only moving aside for when John arrived and knelt at the figure’s side.

“It’s Quinn,” he said grimly, brushing back some of the matted hair to get a better look at the victim’s face; the skin was flecked with small cuts from the gravel and the glasses were missing.  John realized that the glasses must have fallen off back at the pub, when the American had first punched him.  The silver case, he noted, was also missing, but Quinn’s blood-covered hands were still curled as though clutching onto it.  “All right, we need to get him to a hospital, there’s a bullet wound to the shoulder and leg, and he hit his head on the base of the lamppost,” John said, scanning Quinn’s form and noting where the massive blood spots formed.  He was also relieved to see that despite the injuries, Quinn was still breathing.  “While it isn’t life-threatening, it can quickly get there.  I can only stop-”

“No hospitals.” James’s voice cut into John’s diagnosis, and John paused, sensing the commander rising to the challenge before them.  “No hospitals, he’s not in the system and there’s a little too much at stake if he’s exposed.”  Blue eyes met blue, and James added, “Can we take him back to your flat?  Do you have medical supplies?”

John nodded, resisting the urge to ask more questions, but knew that it looped back to James’s earlier statement about being unable to give away details about his job.  “I’ll tell Eve how to get there once she comes, but for now, we need to stop the bleeding,” he said as James ripped a piece of his shirt off.  “That works,” he said, reaching for the cloth to make a temporary tourniquet.  “I take it the police can’t know about this either?” he added as he began probing Quinn’s leg for the injury there.

James nodded distractedly, but didn’t say a word.

For some odd reason, John hadn’t expected him to.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that the story rating has been bumped up.


	6. Chapter 6

Contrary to popular opinion, Sherlock was not the first in the Holmes family to fake his death.

That honor didn’t even go to Mycroft.

When Mycroft Holmes was only five years old, and Minerva Holmes was expecting Sherlock, the family patriarch, Siger Holmes, had left England on business to Rome for a political conference with the European Union.  He’d traveled with a family friend, one Maurice Devoir, and a member of the Italian delegation had joked that the two men had looked so similar that they could have been twins.  Perhaps that was what Siger had been thinking when a sniper, targeting him, shot a silhouette in the hotel room window and Maurice paid the price for walking into the room ahead of his friend.  Siger switched identities with Maurice long enough to escape Italy and return home days ahead of the news of his death.  He was able to stun his fellow politicians with his triumphant return to Parliament and uncover the identity of the man who paid the sniper in the first place.

That was the reason why Minerva never found out about the debacle until decades later, when Mycroft was in his twenties and, with the assistance of two trusted university friends, faked his death in order to draw out another political assassin.  Sherrinford still remembered walking into the drawing room to find his mother grieving over a letter, still remembered being pulled tightly into her embrace as she silently swore never to let him go.

Hell personified descended upon Mycroft when he returned home two weeks later.  That was the most angry Sherrinford ever saw his mother get, and he’d vowed to himself _never_ to get on her bad side after witnessing her rage that day.

But later that evening, Sherlock had pointed out that the four of them, no longer under Siger’s vigilant protection, were going to be frequent targets, and if faking deaths was the only way to avoid the actual grave, they had to do it.

Minerva made Sherlock and Mycroft swear to her that in the event they should fake their deaths under extreme circumstances, they had to tell her in person within ten days after the funeral.

Sherrinford was overlooked at the time because he was the baby of the family, and Minerva couldn’t fathom him even leaving the estate grounds, much less Sussex. 

Then Sherlock went to uni, fell into drugs, and family splintered a little more.

* * *

“…and then Williams lost track of him after he got into the car.”

A sigh.  “The only car I know of that fits that particular description belongs to Mycroft Holmes, and on one memorable occasion, to a person who died a while ago.  Did Williams catch any plates?”

A female voice that was vaguely familiar spoke next.  “No.  It was too dark, and the driver seemed to know to park in a CCTV blind spot.”

The second speaker spoke again, male.  “I wouldn’t know then.  I’ve already dealt with too many bloody hidden agendas, all I can tell you is that we really should be asking Quinn.”

While Q could hear the voices, he couldn’t identify them through foggy haze of pain and nausea that had settled into his slowly returning awareness.  He was well aware enough that he was in a sticky situation: the last time he’d woken up like this, it had been after Sherlock accidentally crashed the small biplane stolen from an airfield that was nearby their vacation home in the Côte d’Azur.  But he didn’t know if he was listening to Molly, Sherlock and the latest informant that Sherlock had dragged home, or if he was in the hospital listening to a conversation he technically shouldn’t be listening in on.  The voices were soft, indicating distance between him and the speakers, two men, one woman, but gave nothing away as to the identity of the speakers.

Then again, he couldn’t even remember what happened after he’d escaped from the Emerald Lion.  That entire memory was nothing but a darkish blur highlighted with first shock, rage, and then _pain_.

A sudden swell of bile in the back of his throat suddenly made him gag, and he could only manage a groan before struggling to turn over on his side before he became sick.  The voices had stopped as soon as he’d made a sound, and he felt a firm pair of hands gently help him into a sitting position, propping him up so he could vomit.

“Easy there, you’ve been out for several hours, you hit your head pretty hard,” the second male said, and Q struggled to remember that part.  As well as figure out why he felt completely stiff all over.  “Can you open your eyes?” the man asked

It took Q a few moments to consider the possibility, and then slowly open his eyes as requested, seeing nothing but a gray-blue blur broken by two hazy people-shaped blurs.  “Where the hell am I?” he asked, the words slurring together so much he momentarily feared that he wouldn’t be understood.

“Baker Street, namely my flat,” said the second speaker, and Q’s brain sluggishly reminded him that there was only one other male occupant at Baker Street other than him.

John Watson.

Which meant, if there were two others, the chances were very, very high that it was Bond and Moneypenny.

Although that meant that Q had more or less made himself look like a complete fool in front of Bond, adding to whatever low opinion the agent had of him, it also meant that Sherlock was most likely still alive and hiding at Molly’s.  As someone placed pillows behind his back to prop him up, Q’s brain cleared a little more as the events from earlier slowly fell into place.  He remembered being shocked when Sherlock punched him, the flash of satisfaction when he head-butted his brother back, and the sheer panic as he left the pub; he hadn’t known how Sherlock planned to finish the fight that would successfully fool the double-oh in the same room.

Actually, he couldn’t quite remember that either.

“I can’t see,” he said, stiffly reaching up to rub his temples as he began picking up the pieces of his dignity, determined not to give 007 any more ammunition for later. 

“Yes… Mrs. Hudson went into your flat to get them, and she wanted me to tell you that she went in,” John said.  “But before I give them back, I need to check your eyes, to make sure the concussion isn’t too severe.”

“What _happened_?” Q asked, instinctively shying away when John reached for his eyes slowly, but found that whoever had propped him up earlier was keeping him in place now. 

“What’s the last thing you remember?” John asked, carefully nudging Q’s eyelids open, one at a time, to shine a light and examine the pupils.

“Running.  From the pub, after that arsehole shot the lights out.”  Q was pleased to find that the more he forced himself to speak, the less slurred his words were coming out.  “What happened after that?”

John hesitated, a split-second thing that was obvious despite Q’s near blindness.  The doctor was adjusting well to not having Sherlock around, his reactions and tells becoming more naturally pronounced.  Q didn’t call him out on it.  “Even though we’re still searching for the security footage to prove it, James and I believe that your American friend may have shot you in the arm and leg.  You hit your head on a lamppost on the way down,” he finally said as the other unidentified set of hands leaned Q gently on the pillows again.  He said something else, but Q tuned him out, holding onto the fact that Sherlock had had the blatant _audacity_ to shoot him.  Even Mycroft hadn’t dared to do that (yet).

Deciding not to fixate on that particular injustice right at the moment, Q filed it away for later.  It was just one more thing he owed Sherlock once his brother was finished. But there was also the matter of the security cameras to think about.  Sherlock may have been careful to avoid them, but Q had forgotten completely about them.  He made a mental note to erase those later.

“Quinn?”

Q blinked and looked at John.  “Glasses please?” he asked hopefully.

The John-blob moved, and then Q’s headache eased somewhat when he slipped the glasses on. 

Now that he could see better, he recognized that he was definitely in John’s flat.  Eve Moneypenny was perched on an armchair near the sofa, elbow resting on a Union Jack pillow as she balanced a cup of tea.  Behind her, on the mantelpiece, Q spotted the familiar skull that Sherlock had stolen from the Venetian catacombs on a misadventure when the two had been younger.  He still remembered the awkward questions the conductor had for Mycroft when the skull had been discovered in the luggage; their mother had been out of the compartment getting tea to soothe an upset stomach.  Only blackmail courtesy of Sherlock kept Mycroft from exposing the two of them to Minerva when she returned with tea for everyone. 

“Quinn?  I might have to keep you here overnight, you’re spacing out on me,” John said, standing up, attracting Q’s attention again.  Glancing at someone behind Q, John added, “Keep him talking and focused on you, I’m going to get an ice pack,” before getting up and leaving Q’s field of vision.

Bond instantly replaced him, sitting carefully on the edge of the couch.  For a moment, after John left to the kitchen, the three of them stared at each other, silently daring someone else to speak first.  Eve and Bond, Q noticed, were still wearing the same attire as they’d worn in the pub, he couldn’t have been out for that long.

“It’s almost three, you’ve been out for almost six hours.  We were starting to get worried,” Eve said finally, eyes flickering to Bond as though for confirmation. 

Q _almost_ believed the ‘we’ part, but he wasn’t going to nitpick with a trained killer sitting in his personal space.  “For some odd reason, I get the sense that it’s less worry of my personal safety as opposed to the purpose of my visit,” he replied mildly, relaxing against the pillow now that he knew where Bond was for sure.    

007 spoke faster than Eve could.  “What the bloody hell _were you thinking?_ ” he asked softly in a tone that Q hadn’t heard since he’d still been R and had been monitoring a joint mission between Bond and 005 under Boothroyd’s supervision.  Q-Branch hadn’t really been needed for that one, but the target still didn’t fare well after that.  “And what were you _doing_ , selling MI6 secrets _?_ ”

Q tilted his chin forward before replying in a surprisingly steady voice, “No, I was getting in touch with an informant that I've worked with before.  That man, Henry Sigerson, has been my eyes and ears for almost two years now, we started working together under my last employer.  I tell him what I want, and we set up payment based on his price.  As far as he’s concerned, I still work for Mr. Holmes.”  Frowning, he added, “All I did today was tell him how much I was going to pay him for this particular assignment. Obviously, he didn't like it.”  The story sounded a little too practiced, but Q figured he could blame the concussion if Bond brought the story up again at a later date.

“Informants are risky, you never know when they’ll turn on you and sell you out to the highest bidder,” Bond said, blue eyes narrowing.  “Seeing as you have very little experience-”

"Just because I work in Q-Branch does not mean that I don't know how to handle informants. I just told you that I used to work with them under Mycroft Holmes, the only difference now being that I work for MI6 instead," Q interrupted, gritting his teeth as he forced himself up onto his elbows, causing Bond to lean away. "The question now, I suppose, is why are you taking an issue this time? I had no idea that he would shoot me the way he did, not after working together for at least two years. You've dealt with turncoat informants before, so why are you getting on _my_ case about it  _now_?" 

He knew he struck a nerve when Bond moved faster than he anticipated.  He caught Q’s chin in a firm grip and forced the Quartermaster to look him in the eye.  “The difference is that your carelessness can and will affect others, and I learned that the hard way. I don’t give a _damn_ about what you do or whom you talk to, but when the few friends and allies I have left are threatened as well, _that_ is when I step in.  After all,” here Bond gave a smug little smile, “As you so astutely observed earlier, M favors me.  I think she’d understand if you were removed permanently or charged with treason.  It’s not like you don’t have a successor.”

Eve beat Q to getting the next word in.  “James, Q, knock it off.  Catch Silva first, _and_ then you may tear each other to pieces at your leisure,” she said, trying to keep her voice down.  Glancing at Q, she added, “What happened?  There’s always the chance that someone else will be gunning for you later, and some things aren't worth it.  What could possibly be worth risking your life for like that?”

Q reflexively glanced in the direction of the kitchen before he said, “The list of undercover agents.  I don’t know how, but Sigerson found out about it, and he’s willing to fetch it himself and hand it over to me.”  At 007’s growing look of disbelief, Q sighed, suddenly feeling tired and worn out as he leaned back against the pillows. "I just can't let him know how valuable it is."

“All right, back off James, we can continue bickering later when we’re in a secure environment and Q’s feeling better,” Eve said, setting her tea down before getting off the armchair.  “Switch places with me, James.  Just to remove the temptation to throttle him.  As annoying as he may be right now to you, we still need the Quartermaster.”

“Yes, not throttling me is an excellent idea,” Q agreed, ignoring the scathing glare Bond sent his way before settling in the armchair Eve had just vacated right as John returned, carrying a familiar mobile and an icepack.

“Sorry, Molly called a few minutes ago, wanted to see if you were all right.  She’d apparently texted several times as well, but I don’t know the passcode to your phone,” John said, setting it down on the blanket covering Q.  Glancing warily between Bond's pensive expression and Eve’s exhaustion, he added, “Keep the icepack to the point of contact, right here.” 

Q gritted his teeth as fingers gently probed his head, and then flinched when John found the decent sized bump.  He took the icepack from John and gingerly held it to his head with one hand as he typed in the four-digit passcode with the other, careful to keep the screen facing away from the other three without being obvious.

Judging from Bond's narrowing eyes, he wasn’t doing that good of a job.

All of the texts but one were from Molly.  Molly’s texts ranged from worried, anxiety, and then started slipping into full out panic.  The last text however was from ‘HS’, and it said, ‘ _Lamppost was accident.  Didn’t see it until last minute. –HS’_

If Q had the energy, he’d smack himself in the forehead with the phone.  “When can I go back to my flat?  _Alone?_ ” he asked, pointedly watching John as the other moved around the flat.

“When I feel confident enough that you won’t keel over the moment I turn my back,” John said before handing Eve a fresh cup of tea.

“I could keep an eye on him,” Bond offered as John sat down in the other armchair.

“That won’t be necessary, I have standards,” Q replied, ignoring Eve’s faint groan of exasperation.  “But, if it makes you feel better, you can accompany me back to headquarters, I left Mrs. Hudson’s container there as well as some paperwork that still needs to be finished-”

“No, bed rest either here, or in your flat with supervision,” John said.  “No paperwork, and Mrs. Hudson won’t mind if you bring it in tomorrow.”

“Very well, if it’s not too… imposing, I wouldn’t mind staying here,” Q said, glancing in Bond’s direction warily before turning back to John.  “Just for the night, I should be getting back to work in the morning.”

“I don’t think that’s such a great idea, _Quinn_.  We wouldn’t want you to overwork yourself,” Bond said before John could speak.  Offering a shark’s grin, he added, “I can talk to our boss, and your subordinate can take over for you in the interim.”

“Ha, no.  I’ll show up on time tomorrow.  Sorry to burst your bubble,” Q replied irritably.  Turning to John, he said, “I can stay on the couch, I don’t feel very much like moving, and I’ll be gone by morning.”

He didn’t want to make John feel any more awkward about having a visitor, especially one who looked eerily similar to his ‘dead’ flatmate.  Q had already gone through that drama once with Mycroft, and now he was stuck with an insufferable Double-O as his punishment.   

“Quinn, you should get some sleep, it should help with the recovery process,” John said, standing up.  “I’ll wake you up every four to five hours.”

“Will you need help?” Bond said, glancing up at him.  “Do you have to go into work tomorrow or something?  I can stay and wake him up.”

“It’s all right, my flatmate used to keep me up at all odd hours of the night, it won’t be hard to sleep lightly,” John said, grinning.  Q still saw the ghost of sadness for a split second before it disappeared behind the mask again.  “I suppose though you can come by tomorrow morning to pick him up.  The concussion isn’t severe, and I’ll check him again in the morning before I go, but I can’t stay during the day.”

“Sounds like a plan, although I'll stay to keep an eye on him,” Bond said before Q could object.  Leaning back in his seat, Bond glanced at Eve and said, “You should get going before Williams keels over from panicking all evening.  I swear the IT department can’t function without their boss.”

“It only seems that way to you because you’re scaring them half the time,” Eve said, standing up and picking up her handbag.  She hesitated, and then paused by Q’s shoulder.  “Take care, Quinn.  I’ll see if I can weasel out of work in the morning to come get you too, I won’t leave you to his mercy,” she said, winking before squeezing his shoulder gently.  Then she slung her bag over her shoulder and said, “James, _be nice_ for God's sake.  Please _try_ at least.”

“I’ll call if his condition changes,” John said to Eve, who nodded. “Maybe when you have a moment, we can head out again.”

“I’ll have plenty of time, don't worry.  Quinn doesn’t get around as much as you’d think.  Frankly, I was surprised to see him at the Emerald Lion at all,” Eve said, nodding in Q’s direction.  “But yes, do call.  Good night, John.”

“ ‘Night,” John replied, and he stayed at the top of the stairs until Q heard the downstairs main door closed shut. "Would you like the bed upstairs?" he asked, glancing at Bond, who shook his head.

"I'll stay here on the armchair, I've slept in worse," Bond replied, glancing at his watch. "I can keep an eye on him, you have work in the morning. Every four to five hours, right?"

"Right." John moved to where Q could see him and then shut off most of the lights.  “I’m going to get ready for bed, but I’ll wake you up in four or five hours to make sure you’re still doing all right.  James said that you couldn’t go to a hospital, which I still feel like you should do, but I’m trusting him on this one.”

“My records do exist, John.  Bond is just paranoid,” Q said quietly.  He decided not to mention that he had a big ‘DECEASED’ stamp on his Winchester persona’s records, and that his birth records, while safe as a hard copy, technically no longer existed in the system. 

"For good reason," Bond said, gesturing to the stairs. "You should get some rest, John, he's not going anywhere and I can wake you up if his condition worsens or there's another problem that needs looking at. Thank you, though, for putting us up for the night."

“Anytime, really. I'll keep Gladstone in my bedroom, he won't bother you there," John assured him before glancing at Q. "Good night, then, both of you. And try not to kill each other, sound carries well throughout this flat."

Q flushed in embarrassment, shrinking below the blankets. "Of course, thank you Doctor Watson," he said, risking a glance in Bond's direction. The agent didn't say anything, but raised an eyebrow even as Q turned back to John and said, "It's all right to let Gladstone roam about, I don't wish to impose any longer than necessary."

“I'll leave the door open, but can't guarantee what Gladstone will do.  And please, call me John,” John said, nodding once towards Q before turning to Bond. "There are spare blankets in the linen closet, if you wish, along with a better pillow."

"It's fine, you know I've slept in worse. Get some rest, you don't want to fall asleep on your patients tomorrow," Bond said, gesturing towards the stairs. "Like I said earlier, I'll call if I need anything."

"All right, good night then."

Q listened to John's limping footsteps head up the stairs, and turned his head slightly to find Bond staring out the large window overlooking Baker Street, his posture relaxed for once. He settled back down and stared at the ceiling, about to drift off when Bond unexpectedly asked, "How did Sigerson know to get in touch with you about the list of agents?"

"He knows Mycroft Holmes worked in the government, and the list is obviously something we want back in our hands," Q said tiredly, not willing to pursue this subject farther tonight. "I would never,  _ever_ put the agency at risk with informants. I've only ever had two people screw me over before, and my brother died as a result. That is why I didn't want to dance to Silva's tune after I accidentally let him loose. I never stopped trusting you to do your job, but if you don't trust me, then that's your business, and not mine," he added, turning over so his back was to Bond. "Just don't interfere with my job, and we'll be fine. Boothroyd hired me, I made it, so  _clearly_ I'm not incompetent."

He didn't hear if Bond replied or not, just curled into a ball underneath the blanket.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about being a day late with this one, I was traveling all day yesterday. 
> 
> Disclaimer: Not a medical expert, everything about concussions came from the Internet (namely WebMD).


	7. Chapter 7

"I'll kill him."

John grimaced at James’s promise.  “It's possible that he went downstairs to his flat, he lives here in the building too," he said, studying the small note of thanks that Quinn had left on top of the folded blankets.  “Mrs. Hudson didn’t see him leave either, she’s actually surprised he did.  So he could still be here." 

James ran a hand through his hair before he shook his head. "I'll catch him at work, he'll be there without fail," he said, leaning down to pick up the jacket that had fallen when he stood up. He sounded annoyed yet impressed at the same time, although John suspected that James would deny the latter until the day he died. "Thank you, for letting us stay the night."

"Any time. Make sure his physician checks him over too, I'm assuming that he's one of O'Reilly's," John said, clipping Gladstone's leash to the dog's collar to keep the dog from running out of the flat after Bond.

"Will do. And I'll call to set up another get-together, Quinn will be coming along next time," James said, nodding once. "Until next time, then."

John nodded, biting back the question he'd had the tip of his tongue; if Quinn couldn't go to a hospital, then how was he a patient of a man who worked at Royal London Hospital? Something didn't add up, and John would have to do his own, quiet investigations. "Until next time," he said, watching as James finally left the flat.

Then he let Gladstone go again, using the dog treats to distract the puppy before grabbing his keys and his black jacket, double checked that the stove was off, and then headed out the door and leaving the flat.

He was halfway down when he heard the revving of James's car's engine, and saw the silhouette of the vehicle leaving the curb. John had inadvertently caught snippets of their argument last night while he was in the kitchen, and while he hadn’t been able to catch specific details, both James and Quinn had been all but ready to murder each other and Eve had been sitting between the two of them when John came back into the living room. The three of them were hiding something, and while it wasn't John's business to pry, he knew he'd have to know soon in case James brought danger and trouble behind him. He hailed a cab, and as the vehicle pulled up to the curb, he texted ‘ _Have you seen Quinn? –JW’_ to Molly.  “St. Bart’s, please,” he said, getting in.  The cabbie didn’t verbally reply, but he nodded and immediately began driving again.

John was just settling down in his seat and mentally preparing himself for another long day at the office when his phone buzzed with an incoming text.  Frowning, he picked it up, but then relaxed when he saw that it was from Molly and it said:  _‘He stopped by to talk, he went to work after –MH_ ’

John forwarded the text on to James, hoping that it would assuage some of his friend’s fears.  He was reluctantly impressed that Quinn had made it that far on crutches (or at least John hoped, he didn’t think Quinn would be stupid enough to pull of a Sherlock-esque escape and simply carry on despite being only on painkillers.  He remembered the odd nights when he’d have to sleep lightly to keep Sherlock from working on cases in order to rest, and then there was the one memorable occasion when he’d put a bell on the other side of their door handle that alerted to him each time Sherlock tried to escape the flat).  Despite Molly’s reassurance, John decided to wait until he had James’s confirmation that Quinn was safe.  He decided that he’d also ask James to drag Quinn back to Baker Street, primarily because Quinn _shouldn’t be working just yet._

Cassidy was already at her desk when John arrived to St. Bart’s, and she was in something of a mood, too distracted with shuffling papers around and muttering to herself something about stubborn patients to acknowledge John’s greeting.  She did however remember him long enough to look up and call, “Doctor Watson?”

“Yes?” he asked, glancing at her over his shoulder as he hung his jacket up and began reaching for the white lab coat. 

“I’ll be printing out your appointment schedule in a moment, the system glitched again last night,” Cassidy said, rolling her eyes.  “Oh, and a Doctor O’Reilly called this morning, wanted to chat with you at lunch about a mutual patient.  I’m guessing that the patient is Whishaw from the other day,” she said, glancing back at the computer again as though for confirmation.

“He probably wants Whishaw’s files,” John replied, remembering what James said about Universal Exports’ hackers.  “Could you do me a small favor, Cassidy, and remove all of Mr. Whishaw’s files from the system?  I want hard copies only, and I want them in my office, please.”  He knew that the hackers most likely already got into the system, but hopefully he could prevent further theft by removing it completely.

Cassidy frowned.  “But isn’t it clinic policy to keep electronic records of all patients to prevent theft?” she asked, looking up at him in confusion. 

“A friend of mine brought up the possibility of electronic theft the other night.  It’s possible that someone could hack the system and steal them that way, and Mr. Whishaw has asked for complete privacy on his,” John explained.  “Please take Mr. Whishaw’s files off, and then hand them over to me,” he added before walking into his office.  He suspected that he knew who was behind the glitches, but that didn’t explain how they still pulled it off when Quinn was incapacitated and incapable of delivering that particular order.  As the Americans would say, he knew he was ‘shutting the barn doors after the horses escaped’, but it was better than nothing against further hacking.

“Cassidy, did the schedule say where O’Reilly wanted to meet?” John asked, pausing in the door to his office. 

“He just left this address.  I looked it up and it’s this little restaurant close to Trafalgar Square.  So a cab ride, I can cover for you if you run over, this seems like an important meeting,” she said, frowning thoughtfully as she studied the printed email.

“I’m assuming Mr. Whishaw’s files, but I won’t give them to him right away, not until I find out why he wants them this badly.  Apparently Williams was incorrect with the reason for O’Reilly’s absence, and nothing about this feels right,” John said, switching out the black jacket for the white lab coat. 

“I know what you mean.  I came in this morning to system glitches and idiots and the fact that Whishaw has no records at Royal London, I even called them to check," Cassidy replied smugly, unaware of the jolt in John's gut. "Asked them about O'Reilly, and he does work there, but only on Sundays and Saturday evenings when he's otherwise free. But they don't have a Whishaw in their records."

“Did O'Reilly say what he wanted?” John asked, pausing in the doorway.

“Nope, but he has impressive credentials. I left the files on your desk for when you have a moment," Cassidy said, sipping her tea.  She checked her watch and said, “You should get going, you've got five patients this morning alone."

“Right, thank you.  I’ll try to come back on time,” John said before taking the printed email and walked towards his office.  He wondered briefly how he was going to recognize O’Reilly, but dismissed the concern for now as he settled down to work.

* * *

The lunch rendezvous address in the email led to a small Italian restaurant whose enthusiastic owner reminded John of Angelo; the owner, whose name was Gabriel, had been chatting with a few customers right as John walked in, and had turned to enthusiastically greet John and usher him to a table before he could say that he was technically meeting someone here.  Then, before John could utter another word, the man was gone, disappearing into the kitchen while scattering his staff.

Judging from the exasperated groans and headshakes from both staff and patrons, John suspected this happened more often than it really should. 

He took the opportunity to scan the restaurant for anyone who could possibly be a doctor.  There was the couple that Gabriel had been talking to, they were laughing at something the waiter had said, and then there was the single woman near the front, sipping coffee as she read from an e-reader.  John briefly entertained the impulsive idea of asking her out, but knew it would have to wait until he was done talking to O’Reilly.  There were a group of four at the next table all clustered around a computer screen, and then two men arguing in what sounded like a mix of Italian and Spanish.

He was about to reach for his phone and call Cassidy and see if perhaps O’Reilly left a number when the door opened again and Riley Williams came stumbling in, looking unusually cowed as he scuttled ahead of an older man that John didn’t recognize.  The two men both glanced around the restaurant, and Riley spotted him first.  John watched as the man tugged on his companion’s sleeve in John’s direction. 

“Doctor Watson, I presume?” the newcomer said, as he slid into the seat across the table from John, Riley taking the chair next to him. 

“Doctor O’Reilly,” John replied in an even tone.  Glancing at Riley, he added, “Mr. Williams.”

“I do apologize for his behavior the other day,” O’Reilly said, shrugging his coat off and draping it across the back of his chair.  “On paper, he’s a technician at my clinic, but that day, I was tied up in the emergency room and didn’t realize that my staff ganged up on the newest addition,” he said, turning back to face John. 

“He did mention you were out of the country,” John replied lightly, careful to mask his suspicion.  O’Reilly looked to be in his fifties, with gray hair and faint scars on the side of his face and neck.  Chances were likely he’d been a field medic of some sort before settling down at his current job, but that had been a long time ago since he was comfortable with putting his back to the door.

O’Reilly sighed.  “That’s the problem with techs.  They’re all terrible liars,” he said brusquely, and Riley guiltily shrank down further in his seat.  “Now, I greatly appreciate you being able to spare some time to meet with me.  I was hoping to discuss the patient we both shared.  He hasn’t approached me at all, and I’d like to know the extent of the damage so that I can handle further treatment that will adapt better to his rather active lifestyle.”

“You mean Daniel Whishaw?” John asked.  He knew this was thin ice: while James had confirmed that O’Reilly was his regular physician, he didn’t want to risk betraying his friend to someone who could potentially do him harm.  Living with Sherlock (and by _great_ extension, Mycroft), had taught him to be paranoid of anyone who didn’t own up to his or her work or purpose.  John just didn’t want to risk bringing harm to an old friend.

O’Reilly’s eye seemed to twitch.  “Of course, Mr. Whishaw.  Dear Lord have mercy on his soul because he sure as hell won’t be getting any from me,” O’Reilly said, glancing heavenward for a moment.  “I do apologize for the whole odd circumstances surrounding his entry into St. Bart’s clinic, but evading me is an engrained habit for him, and I’d rather that he was looked after by _someone_ if not me.”  Signaling a waiter, O’Reilly added, “You came highly recommended.”

John frowned, but waited until after he and O’Reilly had given the man their lunch orders; apparently Riley had already eaten back at work, and he just requested a coffee and a travel cup of Earl Grey.

“You know it will be cold by the time we get back, right?” O’Reilly said, raising an eyebrow at Riley, who shrugged.

“I don’t think he’s going to whine about that sort of peace offering, I’ll just reheat it before I give it to him,” Riley said, shrugging with one shoulder.  “Maybe it can be an appeal to stop torturing the rest of us…”

“If you don’t mind me asking,” John said finally, “Who was it that recommended me?”

“Someone who requested anonymity, there’s a bit of a backstory to it but now is neither the time nor place for it,” O’Reilly said, shaking his head in dismay.  “I do apologize for inflicting Whishaw on you, I understand that he can be a difficult patient.  Well, at least to me he is, he never listens to me when it comes to self-care.”

“No, I understand what you mean.  My old flatmate used to give me a world of grief, wouldn’t sit still long enough for me to attend to him.  He’d be working even when I was looking him over, I had to threaten him with his older brother in order to get him to sit still,” John said, remembering the long nights when one or both of them required patch-ups after or during a particularly difficult case.  Sherlock would continue to study the files and photographs even as John checked him over and patched up injuries, and he’d learned quickly that Sherlock would damage the dressings almost immediately after.  Or at least in the beginning he did, Sherlock slowly got better about taking care of himself as time went by.  “I once carried a small first aid kit when the two of us went out and I’d just checked him over, he always managed to pull something or get a new injury almost every time he walked out the door.”

O’Reilly sighed.  “I understand that feeling, sometimes I’m tempted to withhold the painkillers to convince the idiot Whishaw that healing is more important than whatever the hell it is that he does in his free time.  He dodges me, my staff, and even the emissaries,” he said, rubbing the bridge of his nose.  “Don’t even get me started on when he’s out working.  No regard for personal safety whatsoever.”

“He seemed pretty compliant when I checked him over,” John said as the waiter returned with their meals. 

“Did he?  Maybe it’s the element of surprise that caught him off guard.  It’s tricky to get the upper hand on officers and soldiers, they’re all too bloody paranoid,” O’Reilly said, shaking his hand in dismay.  “Thank God I got used to it quickly.”

“Do you work in a military hospital as well?” John asked curiously, remembering that Riley had said that he’d worked at the Royal London Hospital, and Cassidy had specified the hours. It didn't hurt to double-check that against the source.

“Part time on weekends.  They’re always looking for extra hands, so they hardly ever complain when I come in,” O’Reilly said, sighing.  “I see Whishaw more often at Royal London Hospital, where I work full time.  You know, when he actually decides it is _not_ beneath him to show up for medical care.”

“I thought he worked at a shipping company, I wouldn’t have thought that he could get into that much trouble in that profession,” John remarked.

To his surprise, Riley choked on his coffee, earning a faint glare from O’Reilly.  “Sorry, excuse me,” the technician mumbled before wiping his mouth and standing up, coffee dripping down his hand.  John watched as he hurried to the loo before turning back to O’Reilly. 

“Honestly, I do not know how he does it.  A walking trouble magnet is what he is,” O’Reilly said with an air of defeat.  “Might as well as paint a bloody target on his back and see what happens then.”

John snorted at the image.  “If he lets you get close enough to him as it is for that,” he joked, and O’Reilly nodded in agreement. 

“It’s a pain in the arse to get close enough just to stitch him up, never mind anything else,” O’Reilly said.  He sighed, and said, “I can only imagine what the psychologists have to say about him.”  Checking his watch, he sighed and said, “I don’t want to keep you from your work, Doctor Watson.  Thank you for granting me this opportunity to talk to you,” he said as Riley returned and sat down.  “I can only ask that you give me another chance for a conversation at a later date, and that you would allow me to look over your notes from Whishaw’s visit at some point in the near future.”  He glanced at the kitchen before adding, “Do not worry about the bill, it’s been taken care of.”

“Thank you.  I enjoyed our conversation, and look forward to our next meeting,” John said, standing up with O’Reilly and shaking hands with the other man. 

O’Reilly then gathered his coat as Riley took the cup of Earl Grey.  “Spill that on me in the Tube, and we’ll see how long you last under _my_ jurisdiction,” O’Reilly warned, and Riley nodded, his shoulders sagging even more.  John’s heart went out to the poor technician, who looked as though he was just having a bad day. 

“Of course, sir,” Riley mumbled, nodding once to John before following the doctor, who briskly left the restaurant. 

John sighed as he sat back down, well aware that he’d have to get back to St. Bart’s soon.  He glanced at his phone to find that he had a text from James, saying that Quinn was safe and sound back at Universal Exports as though nothing had happened.  Tucking the phone away, he sat back down, finished what was left of his meal, and then stood up to leave again.

He was on his way out when the woman near the front window accidentally knocked her phone over, jumping and swearing softly when it clattered loudly to the floor.  “Oh, wait, here, let me help,” he said, kneeling down right as she did. 

As he did, a sharp pain flared in his leg, and he grimaced.  Bracing himself against the floor, he rubbed his leg even as the woman reached out to steady him.  “Sir?  Are you all right?” she asked anxiously, green eyes searching his.

“Yes, sorry about that,” he said, feeling himself cringe.  Of all the times for his leg to flare up, it had to be now.  “Old war injury.”

“Here, let me help you up,” she said before bracing herself against the table and helping him up.  “There, all better,” she said, smiling pleasantly as she stepped back.  “Thank you though, for trying to help me.”

“No problem.  Doctor John Watson,” he said, offering his hand.

She smiled.  “Scarlett Papava,” she replied, accepting the handshake.  “It was nice to meet you, Doctor Watson,” she added, going back to her seat.

“Likewise,” he said, smiling and silently ( _briefly)_ wishing that he didn’t have go back to work quite so soon.

Scarlett merely smiled before going back to her e-reader. 

John shook his head to himself as he left the restaurant, still smiling faintly.  Back to work.


	8. Chapter 8

If looks could kill, Q would have died twice in the last three hours alone.

His wonderfully rough morning had started with a bumbling escape and finished with ticked off double-oh agent.  It had been a stupid move really, leaving Baker Street when his flat was two levels down from John's.  In true Holmsian fashion though, Q made his escape to Molly’s flat first to both reassure her and recuperate without Bond breathing down his neck for once, wishing he could remain holed up with Molly until everything blew over and Sherlock returned and brought a sense of normalcy to his life again. 

He could always dream, though.

As it was, he had to settle with Bond watching him from across Q-Branch as he worked on establishing a secure connection with 006, who had hit yet another roadblock in his mission to infiltrate the same mafia stronghold as before.  Bond had finally caught up to him while Q was leaving Molly’s flat, and hadn’t been pleased at all.  Q was too tired though to really nitpick at Bond’s behavior, so unless Bond did something fantastically stupid to anger him, Q wasn’t going to yell at him for the rest of the morning, possibly afternoon too.  He had enough to deal with as it was, including two unwanted visitors that would soon arrive.

_Eight hours until I can go. I can do this._

Q glanced up at the soft _hiss_ of the Q-Branch doors opening, and then went back to work when he saw that it was the two senior analysts he’d been working with for the last couple days.  “I’m almost done with establishing the connection to double-oh six,” he said, putting the paper slip into his desk drawer. 

“Excellent,” Elizabeth Anders said as she moved to stand next to him, putting on her own headset and calibrating it with Q’s laptop, where he’d be monitoring 006.  She was the nicer of the two, relatively speaking, and didn't annoy Q quite as much as the other analyst did. “Doctor O’Reilly wants to see you, by the way, after you’re done in here and he gets back from lunch,” she added as the other analyst, Michael Sandler, pulled on his own headset.  “Something about a concussion?”

Q automatically looked up at Bond with narrowed eyes, and only scowled when he saw the double-oh’s innocent expression.  “I haven’t the faintest idea of what he’s talking about,” he muttered back as he began turning the appropriate monitors back on for the upcoming job. He almost called for R, to ask the other man to recalibrate the trackers before providing an update on 005, when he remembered that O’Reilly had borrowed R for the lunchtime chat with Doctor Watson. _Out of commission then; I can do that after I'm done here.  
_

“I’m sure O'Reilly elaborate once he gets back,” Elizabeth said as Q pulled up his screen onto the central monitor.  006’s vitals were on a smaller screen on Q’s left with a map of Sorrento on the smaller screen to Q’s right.  “All right, what seems to be the problem now?” she asked as Q hacked into the security cameras while still waiting for the secure audio channel to connect.

“Signor Ottavio Arnoni is now well aware of our presence in southern Italy, he’ll be waiting for double-oh six to return,” Q said as Michael nodded in confirmation at the mention of the mob boss’s name.  He looked up as a pop-up message appeared, confirming the connection.  “Double-oh six, can you hear me?” Q asked, hand poised over the mouse pad, still scanning the crowded streets of Sorrento for the agent.

There was a crackle of static before he heard, “ _Loud and clear, Q.  I’m probably the only one with a mobile out right now, I’m playing it up as a tourist this time.”_

“Ah, I see you now,” Q said, happily locating a cluster of American tourists.  There was one tall blond standing off to the side, pretending to examine some inlaid wooden boxes at the nearest stall while holding a mobile up to his ear.  “Excellent then.  You’ll have to refer to me as Thomas for the duration of this conversation.”

“Elizabeth and I are also here, double-oh six,” Michael said, leaning back on a foot.  “Signor Arnoni is definitely back in Capri, we confirmed that this morning.”

“When?” Q whispered to Elizabeth, lowering his earpiece.

“First thing this morning, before you arrived, we were watching him via satellite.  R said you weren’t feeling well, so we thought we’d take over in the interim,” Elizabeth whispered back before going back to the monitor.

Q narrowed his eyes.  There was no way in hell he was letting the two analysts take _his_ post, but he knew he had to garner the necessary support from his staff first before he could make an serious move against two people M had personally appointed to make sure he didn’t screw up again.  “I see,” he said instead, focusing on the monitor as 006 and Michael discussed possible entry points into Arnoni’s operation.  Adjusting his earpiece again, Q said over Michael’s voice, “The tourist angle won’t work, Arnoni is ready for you to try again, remember?”

“Well, until you have a better solution up your sleeve, we’ll have to go with the tourist angle.  Straight infiltration didn’t work the first time, we’ll have to try another way,” Michael said before going back to the monitors.

The Q-Branch staff weren’t even pretending to be ignoring the three of them now.  Q just hoped that _someone_ was at least monitoring O’Reilly, R, and 004.  He scanned the crowd beyond 006 on the monitor, trying to find someone he at least recognized.  He knew the chances of that were small since the few Italian friends he did have, he’d met in Florence and Venice.  His mother hadn’t been feeling particularly adventurous to travel farther south than Rome that one summer the family did go to Italy.  He’d be encroaching on one of Sherlock’s numerous networks for this plan, but he figured his brother wouldn’t mind since Sherlock already owed him several times over. 

“ _I know,”_ 006 growled at Elizabeth.  “ _I can see his bloody henchmen prowling the harbor, they know me by sight now.  Unless you want a gunfight-”_

“Just go at night, can you drive a boat?  You can always borrow one from one of the locals,” Michael said as Q opened up a fourth screen to start scanning through the crowds. 

 _“I can drive a boat, it just takes a bit of time to steal one without the keys, valuable time that could be used for infiltration.  And they’re loud when you have to go fast,”_ 006 groused as he moved away from the stall, ignoring the string of irritable Italian following in his wake. 

“Patience, double-oh six, Rome wasn’t built in a day,” Q said mildly, his mouth twitching as a minion snickered at his words.  “Same with networks, such as one that I am currently trying to access.”

“Q, I know that Arnoni may not be the smartest mafia boss out there, but he’s not so stupid he won’t notice you adding double-oh six to the list of permitted visitors,” Elizabeth said, glaring at Q, who ignored her.

“Well, obviously he’s not smart since he thought attacking a British diplomatic party was a good idea.  Besides, if I were absolutely sure that Arnoni had electronic records, I would have done that already.  But I think he prefers hard copies to keep out hackers like me, so we have to go about this the old-fashioned way, although a Plan B might be in order if I can’t find anyone,” Q said absently, all of his attention focused on the fourth screen as he continued searching the crowds.  He glanced at his mobile, wondering if he’d really risk a call to Sherlock to ask about contacts with 007 standing _right there_.  Probably not.

“Double-oh six, start heading toward the docks, but stay away from Arnoni’s men.  We’ll walk you through getting onto the ferry and back to Capri,” Michael instructed, eyes flickering between the map of Sorrento and Q’s street view.  “What are you doing, Q?” she asked, frowning her voice.

“Deciding the best way to treat myself tonight,” Q said, grinning when he _finally_ spotted a familiar face.  Adjusting the earpiece, he said, “Double-oh six, please actually go back the way you just came and stick to the market, you’ll want to keep an eye out for a man around your height selling fresh produce, he’ll have a little girl in a pink dress hanging off his arm or at the very least hovering around his stand.”  He centered the camera view on the man in question, and added, “He’s wearing-”

“Double-oh six, hang on a moment,” Michael cut in.  Onscreen, 006 rolled his eyes but pretended to examine another stall full of trinkets anyway.  To Q, he said, “What the hell are you doing, we’re running a mission here!”

“Aside from the fact that you’re supposed to be _observing_ , not interfering, I’ve always found that asking nicely sometimes went a lot farther than simply taking or worse, blundering into Arnoni’s operation.  He knows we’re on to him, and that it’s only a matter of time now until we catch him.  All of his operatives will be on alert for a tall, male British tourist that fits double-oh six’s description,” Q snapped.  “Now if you will _please_ be quiet for the next fifteen minutes, that would be _greatly_ appreciated.”

Elizabeth arched an eyebrow, and Bond tilted his head at the harsh tone, but no one said anything.

 _“Thank you_ ,” Q muttered before going back to 006.  “As I was saying, go to the produce seller with the daughter in a pink dress.  I’ll give you your next set of instructions once you get there.”

“Who is that anyway?” Elizabeth finally asked as 006 did as ordered.  “The man you keep directing double-oh six to, that is.”

“His name is Luca Nascimbeni, my brother helped him out of a sticky spot the last time we were in Italy when I was younger,” Q said as 006 finally spotted the man in question.  “He’s since turned legitimate, but he maintains one or two friends in the underground, just in case of situations like this.” 

There was silence as they all watched 006 warily approach the man, who was chatting away to another customer.  “All right, when he turns to talk to you, hand him the phone and don’t say anything,” Q said, and he watched in satisfaction as 006 nodded.  While they waited, Q glanced at another minion and asked, “How is double-oh four handling her mission?”

“Fine.  Mark in question tried to hit on her, backfired on him,” the minion replied without looking away.  “O’Reilly and R are on their way back now.”

“Good,” Q said, looking up as 006 approached Luca with an easygoing smile on his face, which he could see was putting Luca on edge.  “Not a peep out of anyone, unless you want all your covers blown,” he said as 006 silently held the phone as instructed.  Confused, Luca reached out for the mobile, gently shushing his daughter while putting himself between her and 006.

“ _Buongiorno?_ ” he asked cautiously into the phone, eyes narrowing at 006.

 _“Ciao_ , Luca,” Q said pleasantly, leaning back in his seat.  “ _Sono-”_

 _“Quinnito!”_ Luca cried out, a broad grin breaking out across his face and startling 006.  He wasn’t the only one; several staff members had jumped at Luca’s enthusiastic greeting, and Bond looked both momentarily startled and curious.  “ _Quinnito, come stai?”_

 _Out of all the nicknames he ever came up for me, he had to pick that one._   “I’m doing well, thank you,” Q replied, ignoring a few snickers from the few Italian speakers he didn’t know he had in Q-Branch.  “And you?  No one’s bothering you?”

 _“Ah, no, no one except whom I suspect is your friend here, the one who gave me this phone”_ Luca said, eyeing 006 warily.

“I assure you, Luca, he is relatively harmless,” Q said, finally pleased that they were about to make some headway into this mission.  “Am I correct in assuming that you are still doing daily morning runs to Capri?”

 _“Yes, yes I do_ ,” Luca said, realization dawning in his eyes.  _“You want me to sneak your friend onto the island,”_ he said, lowering his voice as he glanced over at 006.

“Please.  I won’t tell you what he is going to do in case Ottavio Arnoni becomes suspicious, but please do get him to Capri without Arnoni noticing.  Please treat him as though he was one of us.”  Q paused for a moment.  “I’d also greatly appreciate it if you didn’t mention this to my oldest brother either,” Q added, noting Bond perk up in interest at the mention of a sibling.

“ _Ah, Quinnito, I did tell the three of you that I would not get involved in any of your squabbles, so if your brother asks, I will not lie to him_ ,” Luca said, shaking his head.  “But I will not volunteer the information either, if that is what you are asking.”

“Thank you, Luca.  I greatly appreciate you doing this for me,” Q said, rubbing his temples.  “Is there anything you need that I can get?” he asked, leaning on his workstation. 

“ _No, but I will let you know once I think of something,"_ Luca said, ignoring his daughter tugging on his shirtsleeve..

 “All right, Luca, I'll keep that in mind. I have to wrap up here now, though, please hand the phone back to the gentleman who gave it to you.”

 _“It was good to talk to you again_ , _Quinnito_ ,” Luca said before handing the phone back over to 006.

“ _Is that really your name? ‘Little Quinn’?”_ 006 asked the moment he had the phone back up at his ear.

“For some odd reason, double-oh six, I had your friend would bring that up first,” Q said, slowly exhaling and squaring his shoulders.  He had to hold onto whatever little credibility he had left, including not getting distracted.  “Now listen.  Luca runs produce deliveries to Capri every morning at 0600 hours, and he usually brings one of the local boys to help him unload on the island.  Then he’ll set up a stall to sell his products in the morning, you’ll stay with him until 0800 hours, because that’s when Arnoni will be arriving to Marina Grande for his daily trip to church.  When he does this, the marina will be packed.  You will use the chaos to leave the harbor and take Luca’s boat, he knows you’ll be doing this, and go to Faraglioni from there.  Arnoni’s security will be familiar enough with the boat that they’ll let you in, just don’t make it obvious that you’re hiding from them.  They’ll be seeing you at a distance,” Q said, eyeing the satellite map of Capri.  “Grab the files as planned and then return to the mainland.  Luca will take the ferry back if the mission runs longer than his usual stay.”

“ _Understood.  How much caution should I exercise with, ah, Luca?”_ 006 asked.

Q remained silent.  Luca knew the risks, they all did.  The battlefield may have been different, but the rules were the same.  “Signor Nascimbeni is already quite aware of the risks that comes with aiding and abetting strangers against the mafia bosses.  The mission is not to be compromised for anything or anyone.  He will not want to hear any details, since he has not been trained in withstanding interrogation techniques. He does have his family to think about.  I have asked him to treat you as though you were a member of my family, which means you have a little more protection than before.  The only downside to that is when you return to London, we'll need to be careful and keep a low profile."

006 tensed.  “ _Who will be coming after me?”_

“Hopefully no one. Worst case scenario is that someone comes looking around for a chat with you,” Q replied.  “Anything else before we go into radio silence?”

“ _No.  I’ll be in touch once I am done._ ”

“Very well.  I’ll be waiting for your contact,” Q said before signing off, mentally bracing himself for an inevitable explosion. 

“ _Please_ tell me that you did not just send double-oh six into the care of a criminal,” Michael growled. 

“That’s a little harsh for someone who has just agreed to stick his neck out when he could have easily refused my request,” Q said irritably, setting his headset down.  “You asked for a better alternative than to sneaking in, and I provided one.  _Where’s the bloody problem?”_

“Do keep in mind, Quartermaster, that M will be receiving my report by the end of the day,” Michael said stiffly before gathering up his jacket and leaving the branch, everyone watching him leave, a few flinching when he slammed the door behind him.

Q stared at the doors.  “There’s just no pleasing _anyone_ , it seems,” he said finally, glancing at Elizabeth, who shrugged apologetically.  “I’ll have to keep this in mind the next time another Skyfall-esque scenario, follow the bloody orders this time,” he said, removing his glasses to rub his temples and soothe the encroaching migraine. 

“Hopefully there won’t be another Operation Skyfall, I don’t know if you could make it out unscathed,” Elizabeth said, sighing.  She hesitated, and then asked, “If you don’t mind me asking, why did you disobey orders and lose Silva?”

“Because, as I told M, the last time I did what someone told me to do, my brother jumped off a building because we _both_ got cornered.  That’s why I never let my mother know that I ‘died’ when I joined MI6, it was too much, too soon,” he said, putting his glasses back on

“M was in the care of a double-oh agent, remember?” Elizabeth pointed out.

“Yes, the same double-oh whose scores were scattered across the board, last I checked,” Q said, mentally forcing himself to keep his focus on Elizabeth and none of the eavesdroppers near the two of them.  “The way I saw it, I didn’t win no matter the outcome, and so I took the route that I felt had the best payoff.  I screwed up once, and I didn’t want to do it again.”

“You know, not everyone blames you for what Silva did, you said yourself that he’d been planning for the moment when you went into the system,” Elizabeth pointed out, leaning against her desk.

Q didn’t reply, he couldn’t say anything without giving away his family name and his own identity.  Moriarty’s trial and Sherlock’s ‘suicide’ had garnered too much publicity, and as far as the world was concerned, there was only Mycroft and Sherlock Holmes. He couldn't point out that Moriarty had all but orchestrated Sherlock's downfall from the start, and that the parallels he’d seen between Moriarty and Silva were so unnervingly similar.  Even if Elizabeth didn’t make the connections, Bond might, he was smart enough to put two and two together. Q knew that it was most likely better in the long run to include Bond in his plans, to avoid Bond accusing him of perceived treason, but he didn't trust Bond at the moment not to run to M first thing with the information.

“Well, you know where I am if you want to keep talking,” Elizabeth said finally, interpreting his silence as a silent request for her to leave.  “You just have to take into account that we really don’t know Signor Nascimbeni, and we’re entrusting him with a valuable agent,” she added as she gathered her things and then calmly left the branch, mindful to not slam the doors after she left.

Hushed whispers broke out as soon as the doors closed, and Q ignored the multiple stares sent his way as he leaned forward to rub the base of his neck, easing the stiffness out of lying uncomfortably on a couch all night and jumping straight into work.  “Marcela, please tell me you have an update on double-oh four’s mission,” he said, straightening and turning in his seat to face her.

“Tracker has been planted, and Rick and I are already running the mandatory background checks.  For the most part, the rest of it is in O’Reilly’s hands, if he does decide to go for the requests, he’ll have to run it by M first and find one other person to support the appointment,” Marcela said, setting her headset down.  She hesitated, and then asked, “Sir?”

Q paused.  “Yes?”

“Is your name really ‘Quinn’?” she asked, the minions surrounding her trying not to betray their own curiosity.

Q sighed.  He’d known this would have eventually come up, he figured it would have happened much later in his tenure at MI6.  “Childhood nickname,” he said, without looking up.  “I was _much_ younger when we met Signor Nascimbeni-”

“Is that even possible?  Were you an infant then?” Bond asked from his corner, earning soft coughs from a few brave minions.

Q smiled thinly as he turned to face Bond.  “No, double-oh seven. My name was too cumbersome for a six year old, so I had a nickname. It's that simple. Now, unless you have something valuable to contribute to the conversation, please let me return to work and do what I was hired to do," he said, fighting to keep his voice steady despite the encroaching migraine mingling with the underlying exhaustion.  His shoulder and leg were beginning to ache despite the paracetamol that Molly had given him earlier, but he wasn’t planning on moving from his seat anytime soon anyway.

"Childhood friend or not, if something does happen to double-oh six, it will be on your head,” Bond said finally, leaning back against the wall. 

“I _know. I_ ’d say, ‘trust me on this’, but somehow I get the feeling that you’re so stubbornly determined to hate me that it’s a waste of my time and effort,” Q said before going back to his computer and tablet.  He ignored Bond then, holding his peace as he checked 005. Sherlock was leaving England in a few hours, heading south for Vienna to pursue Moriarty’s last sniper, but Q wouldn’t be able to monitor him as much as before until he’d gotten a sense of 007’s schedule and guarding positions.  That and 006’s mission took precedence over his brother, seeing as Sherlock had Mycroft to back him up as well. 

He couldn’t wait for Sherlock to be done, so that his job at MI6 could be easier.

Although he was going to need that paracetamol soon, he made a mental note to discreetly ask R later when the other man got back.


	9. Chapter 9

A few days passed without John seeing James or Quinn.  That alone was worrisome given James’s growing temper before the duo had disappeared, but John found comfort in the odd fact that he had yet to see family members or others coming to 221C in order to clean Quinn’s things out.  Mrs. Hudson’s Tupperware container also appeared on the ground in front of her flat, empty as promised, but other than that, there was no sign of the missing resident of 221C.  As for James, John took silent comfort in the fact that the former navy commander would have to show up in a couple days for a checkup on his arm, especially after he stressed it too much on the night of Quinn’s brush with death.  Then there was the matter of Quinn’s concussion, and how John had no idea of what happened to Quinn’s health after he disappeared. 

While Sherlock frequently did try to escape from medical attention, he either failed or dutifully returned under duress.  From what little John knew of Quinn, the younger man wasn’t quite as stubborn as Sherlock, but he was getting close since he refused to answer his mobile. 

Thankfully however, John wasn’t the only one who noticed the absences.

“I saw Eve the other day at Tesco’s.  You know, your friend from the pub,” Molly said as she closed two drawers, one occupied, the other not, while John watched her from his stool near the examination table in the morgue.  “I asked her how Quinn was doing.”  Molly frowned, and then said, “I didn’t quite understand her answer, but I assumed it meant that Quinn was all right.”

“What did she say?” John asked.  He’d just finished his shift for the day, and was going to head back to Baker Street with Molly, Mrs. Hudson was in the mood for another group dinner and had invited Molly again.  She’d also called Quinn to invite him, but like the three calls before, he’d failed to pick up.  John even tried calling, but no luck.  He’d silently given Quinn two more days of silence before he called the police to report a missing person; Mrs. Hudson had wanted to do it sooner, but John managed to talk her out of it.

“She said, ‘He’s alive’, and left it at that, and I understand it’s supposed to be a comfort, but then she proceeded to ask me if I could pick out the most fattening foods on the display we were standing in front of, because apparently she’s worried Quinn is going to waste away at the rate he was pushing himself.  I told her that Quinn is a bit of a picky eater and helped her find some easy meals that he’ll eat,” Molly explained, shrugging as she pulled her latex gloves off. 

John nodded, rubbing his forehead.  “Mrs. Hudson’s tried calling his work number, to make sure he’s eating wherever he is, but he hasn’t picked up at all,” he said, glancing at Molly, who shrugged.

“Maybe he’s really busy, wherever he is.  I mean, if he’s too busy to even eat, what’s to say that he can’t call?” Molly suggested as she pulled her lab coat off and folded it on top of her desk. 

“That’s a possibility.  It’s just that he’s already stressed Mrs. Hudson out once by disappearing for a week, not four days.  I would have thought he would remember that,” John said almost absently as he stood up and took his bag while Molly took hers.  “Mrs. Hudson almost called the police to find him.  I had to talk her out of it, reminding her that Quinn did have a busy schedule from time to time.”

Molly smiled.  “Mrs. Hudson really takes care of her tenants, doesn’t she?  First Sherlock, then you, and now Quinn,” she said, grabbing her jacket. 

“And you,” John said, and Molly paused, a sad smile flitting across her face.  “I know you’re not around often, but Mrs. Hudson enjoys your company and loves it when you visit,” he explained.

Molly looked sad before she bent down to pick up her bag again.  “I really would try to come by more often, it’s just that I can never tell when it gets busy,” she said.  She hesitated, and then added, “I was really scared that night, at the pub when Quinn got attacked.  I thought he was going to end up here,” she said, nodding toward the empty examination tables.

“I checked him over before he disappeared, he just had a minor concussion.  I checked on him all through the night, except he escaped the next morning,” John said as the two of them left the morgue.

“Yeah, he came to my flat.  He’d wanted tea and biscuits, but didn’t wanted to wake you up,” she admitted, looking embarrassed as they walked to the lifts.  “Then he left for work, something about pressing business.  Always in a hurry, but that’s not a surprise though.  It’s like working with Sherlock again, except you know, Quinn doesn’t really have a use for the morgue.”

“Are the two of you together?” John asked curiously as they got onto the lifts and the doors closed.

Molly shook her head.  “No, we’re just good friends.  I actually asked him if he was seeing anyone where he worked, and he said that the girls were too intimidating to approach, apparently it’s been that way for him since primary school.  Then, I, um, asked if he was interested in men, and he said that he was interested in anyone that wasn’t interested in killing him.  So I asked him what he meant by that, and he said that he runs into a lot of security personnel at Universal Exports.  But he did tell me that the one person he _does_ think about, it’s more of the best way to kill him without getting caught,” she said, shrugging again before fumbling with her purse.

“Yeah, I know who he’s talking about, he once asked me what the consequences were for murdering a colleague.  The frightening thing is that I think he could get away with it.  I don’t know how, but it’s a gut reaction,” John replied as the two exited the lifts and walked through the lobby. 

“He’s smart, I’ll give him that.  Could give Sherlock a run for his money,” Molly said, glancing at John.  “Fifteen quid on that,” she added impulsively.

“Really?”  John paused to study her facial expression, but didn’t glean anything from it.  “You’re on,” he said, grinning as the two started walking toward the exit again.  “We can talk it over during dinner,” he suggested as he held the door open for her.  “Do you have plans?”

Molly shook her head, giving him a little nervous smile.  “No, dinner sounds fantastic,” she said as the two started walking to the curb to hail a taxi.

John would have replied, but he looked up and saw an all too familiar sleek black car idling next to the curb.  Coming to a stop and trying to quell the growing uneasiness, he noted the unfamiliar woman standing by the open back door; she had dark blond hair pulled back into a bun, seemed to be favoring her left leg, and was wearing a gray business suit.  She tilted her head as John and Molly stopped, and then said, “Doctor Watson, I presume?”

“That would be me,” John said guardedly, resisting the urge to look at Molly and see if she recognized the woman.  “Can I help you, Ms…?”

“Lawson.  Tess Lawson,” she said, offering a hand, which John warily accepted.  “My employer would like a few minutes of your time, Doctor Watson,” she said, taking a step back while glancing briefly at Molly. 

“Now?” John asked, raising an eyebrow.  He’d forgotten that Mycroft Holmes liked to kidnap people on a whim, and now was not a good time at all.  He also wasn’t particularly enthused about seeing Mycroft in general either, but the woman’s tone left little room for argument. 

“I promise the meeting will take thirty minutes at maximum, Doctor Watson, after which we will escort you back to Baker Street,” Lawson said patiently, folding her arms behind her back in a faint echo of parade rest.  Nodding to Molly, she added, “We can even provide a second car for Doctor Hooper.”

“Actually, I can manage a cab, thank you,” Molly said quickly, and John nodded as well.

“I’m sorry, but your employer will have to talk to me through the regular channels, schedule an appointment for a meeting, I have to get back to my flat for dinner,” John said, nudging Molly to start walking in the other direction.

Lawson smiled softly.  “I don’t believe there was an option, Doctor Watson.”

John tensed; while he was used to Mycroft’s bullying tactics, he didn’t want Molly to get any more involved than she already was.  “Molly, why don’t you go back to Baker Street and tell Mrs. Hudson I’ll be back in one hour,” he said, to which Molly nodded quickly.  Glancing back at Lawson, he said, “Can you have me at Baker Street in one hour?”

She smiled.  “Of course, Doctor Watson.  The trip itself is ten minutes there and back, the meeting is thirty minutes long, we will have you back with plenty of time to spare,” she replied in an even tone. 

“Don’t worry John, I’ll wait with Mrs. Hudson, do you want me to take anything to the flat?” Molly asked worriedly, wringing her hands.

“No, I’ll be fine with it, don’t worry,” John said, smiling reassuringly at her as he lifted his own bag pointedly.  “Anyway, Mycroft does this with me each time he wants to talk, and did as much with Lestrade.  Or at least that what he told me the last time we talked before, well, you know,” he said in what he hoped was a soothing tone.

Molly nodded, but still looked unhappy with the prospect.  “What happens if you don’t come back in an hour?” she asked as John turned to face Lawson.

“Call Lestrade,” John said bluntly.  “Tell him that Mycroft kidnapped me again, and he’ll know what to do from there.”

Molly hesitated, and then nodded uneasily.  “Um, okay then, be careful,” she said, taking a few steps back as John turned to face Lawson. 

For a moment, neither of them said anything.  Then Lawson smiled before gesturing to the open car door.  “Please get in, Doctor Watson, the sooner we leave, the sooner you can return to Baker Street,” she said pleasantly.

John nodded, squared his shoulders, and then got into the car.  He reflexively checked to make sure that his mobile was within reach as Lawson slid into the seat next to him, shutting the door behind her.  He sat back and buckled in as she leaned forward and rapped a knuckle against the darkened window separating the driver from the passenger.  Then she too sat back and buckled herself in as the car’s engine shifted from neutral and the car smoothly pulled out into the evening traffic.

Lawson was quiet for a few minutes, using one hand to tap out a message on her phone.  “I do apologize, Doctor Watson, for the manner of this visit.  It is of the most importance, and given the current circumstances, it is a miracle we managed to find the time to handle this,” she finally said, tucking the phone away in a very un-Anthea like gesture.

“I understand that things can be busy, but I thought I told Mycroft three years ago that I was not interested in being his errand boy or whatever it was he was using me for.  I have no interest in talking to him right now,” John said firmly.  There was still a way out of this; if he could convince Lawson that he wasn’t interested in talking to Mycroft, and that the visit would only be wasting all of their time, there was a good chance she could tell the driver to change direction and take him back to Baker Street. 

He’d have to somehow communicate this message to Mycroft, tell him to leave him alone just like he’d requested all those years ago.

Lawson quietly regarded him for a few minutes.  “In that case, we should all have something of a common ground,” she finally said.

Something prickled the back of his neck in warning.  “I’m also not interested in becoming a pawn in some political game between your employer and Mr. Holmes,” he said, mentally kicking himself for getting into a car with an unknown person pulling the strings.  He should have learned that one with Irene Adler. 

“Then again, we should all have something of a common ground.  If my employer wanted you as a pawn in a political game, you would already be doing as we wished without us ever having to contact you,” Lawson replied pleasantly, folding her hands on her lap.

Somehow, even without having to question her further, John just _knew_ that she was telling the truth.  He didn’t want to know how her employers would be able to do it, but he just knew they would.  “So, I am assuming that you do not work for Mycroft Holmes?” he finally asked, mentally kicking himself for once again allowing his third random kidnapping.  He was bad at this; somewhere on all planes of existence, Sherlock was berating him for walking into that.  He only felt reassured by the weight of his mobile and Molly’s promise that she’d call Lestrade in one hour.

Although, if Lawson’s employers intended for him to disappear, then there really wasn’t much he could do there.

“A suggestion for tonight: do not mention Mr. Holmes in front of the individuals you will be speaking with.  You will not receive a favorable response.  But yes, I do not work for Mr. Holmes,” Lawson said, her smile twitching a bit.  “Unfortunately, his line of work does not afford enough excitement for me.”

John raised an eyebrow.  “May I ask whom do you work for, and what it is you do?” he asked carefully.

Lawson smiled again, reminding John slightly of Irene Adler.  “I’m afraid that is classified,” she said before facing forward again. 

John nodded, about to leave the conversation be when he realized something else.  He wouldn’t be surprised at all if Sherlock had ruffled Lawson’s employer’s feathers, and this was their idea of revenge.  “If… if this is about my former flatmate, Sherlock, I can’t help you very much there either,” he said finally, glancing over at Lawson, who, to his surprise, frowned.

“I’m sorry, who?” she said, looking confused.

“My flatmate, Sherlock Holmes?  If he had offended your employer in any way, then there’s nothing I can do about it,” he said, frowning when Lawson only looked more confused if that was possible.

“I’m sorry, I don’t know who he is.  I travel frequently as a part of my job, and have only been England for the last five months,” she replied, giving a little embarrassed smile.  “The only Holmes I am aware of is the one that you do not wish to see, Mycroft Holmes.  Although, there is Lady Holmes, she is a good friend of my employer,” Lawson admitted, looking thoughtful as she glanced out the window.  “That actually where I’ll be going next, assisting Lady Holmes with her trip to Italy.”

Interesting.  John had only ever heard of the Holmes mother when Sherlock and Mycroft had been threatening each other with ‘Mummy’, but he had never actually met her in person.  She hadn’t shown up to Sherlock’s funeral, but Mycroft had mentioned that his mother actually rarely ever left home anymore, preferring the quiet retirement life in Sussex to the hubbub of London.

Before he could ask another question though, the car came to a smooth stop again.  “The driver will come when summoned.  You may leave your things here, no one else will get into the car in the meantime,” Lawson said before unbuckling and opening her door.

“Thank you, but I’ll hang onto my things,” John replied, his grip tightening on the bag.  If the situation came down to a struggle, the bag could serve as an impromptu weapon since he hadn’t brought his gun (which was something he really shouldn’t have to worry about, but now that he knew he’d appeared on _someone’s_ radar, it might be a good idea to pick that habit up again). 

Instead of challenging him, like he fully expected, Lawson merely raised an eyebrow before gesturing that he follow her.  Then he saw the large building before him, and realized that once more, he was out of his depth.

He felt horribly underdressed as the two walked toward an upscale restaurant, one that John had never heard of before.  Lawson however was clearly at ease here; she walked smoothly despite the injured knee and flashed a smile at the maître d’ as she paused to allow John a moment to catch up.  “I assume that the seven o’clock reservation is available?” she asked when John had joined her. 

“Of course, madam, this way please,” the maître d’ said before glancing at John, no doubt noting the semi-formal attire.  When Lawson cleared her throat, he gestured that the two follow him. 

“You are of course invited to enjoy dinner here after our meeting, but we’d still be happy to provide transportation after to wherever it is that you wish to go,” Lawson said quietly as they walked through the main dining room.

“Thank you for the invitation, but I do not plan to stay after,” John replied, mindful to keep his voice down as well; Lawson was carefully keeping an eye on the maître d’ while listening to John. 

“Of course.  In that case, we will only be here for forty-five minutes,” she replied.  “After which I will escort you back to Baker Street.”

“What happens after that?” John asked.  At her confused expression, he said, “Ms. Lawson, I am close to assuming that the only reason that your employer has sought me out is to ask for something, which could involve later contact.”

Lawson smiled softly.  “I do pity those who have ever underestimated you, Doctor Watson,” she replied before turning back to the maître d’, who had stopped just inside the small adjacent room the main dining room.  “ _Merci_ , Javier.  If possible, I would like my usual table when I return,” she said, gently guiding John toward the door on the other side of the room.

“Usual order then, Miss Lawson?” the maître d’ asked politely.

“Yes, please.  Five minutes,” she said before nudging John along.  “What?” she asked when she saw him giving her an odd look.

“You normally do this?” John asked, trying not to sound bemused.

“I normally come here when I can, I don’t usually escort others around here, that’s Javier’s job,” Lawson replied as she led him down a wide, well-lit hallway.  He was walking alongside Lawson now; she was careful to stay between him and the window, making him wonder if she was even aware of what she was doing. 

She didn’t say anything more despite John’s further attempts at conversation.  Instead, she faced forward and didn’t acknowledge his attempts, which he gave up after a few minutes of silence. 

It wasn’t until they’d turned the second corner that he saw the first other person since they’d left Javier at the main dining room.  A tall man wearing a black unmarked uniform tensed as soon as they rounded the corner, but relaxed marginally when he saw the two of them approaching.  John didn’t react or flinch as the soldier’s eyes settled on him longer than he did with Lawson. 

“Want me to bring you anything?” Lawson asked as they came closer, bringing the guard’s attention back to her.

“No thank you,” the man replied, glancing back at John.  “Please wait here,” he said before tapping the door twice and slipping inside.

“Well, Doctor Watson, this is where we will part ways,” Lawson said, turning to face him.  She turned to leave, but then stopped as a thought occurred to her.  “I will be here at the end to pick you up.  Please try not to aggravate anyone, Will and I have to deal with them later,” she added, glancing over her shoulder at John.

John blinked.  “I’m sorry, who?”

She didn’t reply, merely winked before turning again and leaving the way they came.

John would have been tempted to follow her, albeit at a distance to figure his own way out of the situation, if the guard hadn’t returned at that exact moment.  “Doctor Watson, they will see you now,” the guard said, startling John.  He nodded toward the open door before resuming his post at the front.

For a moment, John hesitated, but then pushed the door open when he saw that the guard was watching him curiously.  He wasn’t really sure what to expect anymore.

He paused once he’d crossed the threshold; the room was nicely furnished, something he would have expected to see at the Diogenes Club, not a restaurant.  A private dining room, he realized, although a small one.  The curtains, unlike in the rest of the hall, had been drawn closed, blocking out the darkening sky.  The entire room was a cream color, eerily reminiscent of Mycroft’s personal room in the club.  He was about to turn around and ask the guard where anyone else was when he heard someone clearing their throat.

Startled, he turned to find three people on the other side of the only small table in the room.  He immediately recognized Eve Moneypenny standing behind two individuals: a man who was studying the files before him, and an older woman with white hair and was standing, watching John carefully.  Eve however winked for the brief moment where they made eye contact before she leaned forward to listen to something that the man whispered.  John watched as she collected several files from him before walking around the desk and walked past John as though they were strangers, the door closing with an audile _click_ behind her.

Which, in this context, was probably the case.

“Doctor Watson,” the only other woman said, catching his attention.  She definitely held the power here in the room; the man was studiously ignoring John as the woman’s sharp eyes critically studied John for a moment before she said, “We have been observing you for a few days now, and I have a proposition for you.”  She narrowed her eyes slightly before she said, “Sit down.”


	10. Chapter 10

“Sit down.”

John hesitated for the barest of seconds, but then realized that it might be not a good idea to antagonize the woman so early in their discussion.  “Of course,” he said finally before moving to take the seat in front of the small table.  Placing the bag on his lap, so he could reach it quickly in an emergency, he watched as the woman sat down again as the other man looked up from the files.

“Doctor Watson, do you want anything to eat?  Drink?” he asked, leaning forward as John straightened in his chair. 

“No thank you, I’m fine,” John said as the woman scowled briefly at the man before turning back to face John.

“It says here that you used to serve in the army.  Division name and rank?” the woman said, handing a sheet over to her companion.

“Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers.  I was a captain, but I served as a medic,” John said warily.  He wasn’t in the mood for playing the cat and mouse games with the two interrogators, but given that their security was most likely hidden in addition to the guard outside, giving them any reason to feel threatened would most likely be John’s last move.  “I do not… understand why I am here, or who you are for that matter,” he said finally.

“Who we are is of no consequence at the moment,” the woman said, remaining standing, which in turn made John feel as though he was under a microscope.  “As for why you are here… well, it is _extremely_ rare that I get not one, but _two_ advocators for a potential addition to the staff.”

“Not to mention that both advocators are at this very moment trying to drive the other out of the workforce,” the man remarked, shutting the files and laying them flat on the desk.  “The only reason there’s a standstill now is because one locked the other out of the contested department.”  Leaning forward, the man offered his hand and said, “Colonel Mallory of the Ministry of Defense.”

The woman’s jaw twitched, but Mallory, for the most part seemed unconcerned.  “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” John said carefully as he accepted the hand, but was more wary now that he knew he was dealing with another facet of the government.  The only thing that kept him from getting up and walking away was that the two did not seem to have any association with Mycroft, if Lawson’s warning was anything to go by.

“How long did you serve until you left, and why did you leave?” the woman asked, reclaiming John’s attention.

“I didn’t willingly leave, if that’s what you’re hinting at,” John said, frowning.  “I was shot in the shoulder, and had a psychosomatic limp in the left leg,” he said.  “I couldn’t fight since I needed a cane, so I was discharged.”

“Then how is it that you managed to run all over England chasing after criminals like some sort of vigilante?” the woman asked, turning over another sheet.  John immediately recognized the header as the one that was on his blog; the printed entry was the one from the Irene Adler case.  Then the other sheet she turned over was also from his blog, but this one on the Baskerville case.  He kept down the flash of unease; those were the only two cases that had ever had deep interference with the British government.  Mycroft had not been pleased with the second one, even less so with the first one.  “It says here you also managed to break into a secure experimental facility several years ago,” she said, studying another sheet John didn’t recognize.

“Well, as you have already read, I am not at liberty to discuss that case,” John patiently replied.  “As for the others, my flatmate and I worked frequently on cases on a basis of request.  In regards to my leg, I don’t understand it completely myself, it didn’t bother me during those eighteen months, it’s only started to recently come back.”

“And it’s this crime solving that kept it at bay?” Mallory asked, looking interested for the first time since they’d started.  “Interesting.”

“Well, I would say that it was more of the high risk involved with those cases, we sometimes didn’t completely know what it was that we were getting into, such as the case with Miss Adler,” John said, nodding to the printed page.  “The final point is that the psychosomatic limp is coming back, I hope that sufficiently answers that question,” he said, giving a harmless smile to the woman, whose eyes narrowed.

“Not quite,” she said before setting the papers down and clasping her hands behind her back.   “But I do want to know about something else.  So if the crime solving is what caused the limp to go away, then why stop doing it?”

“Because my flatmate was the mastermind behind those, I was there to make sure he stayed out of trouble or worse, the hospital.  Not all of the cases we pursued had a harmless thief at the end of the trail,” John patiently replied.  Hopefully the woman would have already read that said flatmate had been dead for three years now, and would not persist in reopening that small wound.

“Where did you work prior to St. Bartholomew’s?” the woman asked.

“A clinic near Baker Street, I’d wanted a place close to my flat.”  He decided not to mention that half of the decision of location was based on convenience, the other half based on the fact that Sherlock never gave him any warning before gallivanting off on the next case or lead. 

“Why transfer then?”

He hesitated, and then said carefully, “I wanted to be closer to some old friends.”

“Yes, Michael Stamford no doubt, and a Doctor Molly Hooper,” Mallory said, turning over a page.  “Very nice woman, very accommodating when I stopped for an unannounced visit.  But there is something that I am curious about.  You live by yourself at Baker Street with the landlady, Mrs. Hudson, as well as a second neighbor in 221C.  Who is the individual in 221C?” he asked, looking up at John.

John bit back the flare of suspicion: while he and Winchester weren’t the best of friends, and Winchester did bear an uncanny resemblance to John’s dead flatmate and friend, none of that was worth selling Winchester out to these complete strangers.  “I’m sorry, but if you wish to know that, you can ask for the neighbor yourselves.  You have the address already,” he replied steadily.  “The neighbor has nothing to do with this discussion, so there is no need to bring the person up.”

“Why protect him?” the woman asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Because he didn’t do anything, or I suspect he’d be here with me,” John replied calmly.  “Is there anything else?”

“How long did you serve in the army, Doctor Watson?” she asked, eyes narrowing. “You never did answer that.”

“Several years, ma’am.  As soon as I finished medical school and completed the necessary training,” John said, refusing to allow her to intimidate him.  He silently told himself to act as though it was his first meeting with Mycroft Holmes all over again, and then calmly added, “Although I suspect you already knew that, given that my files are in front of you.  Which also means you know exactly where I studied, where I work, and even where I was born.”

Mallory raised an eyebrow in clear interest while the woman’s lips thinned and her eye twitched.  The silence in the room between the three of them seemed to stretch for what felt like hours but John suspected to be seconds.  His grip on the bag tightened, at least with Mycroft he knew what to expect from the man, but the current situation was borderline unpredictable.  If they could monitor him as much as the woman had claimed, then it was likely they could make him disappear just as easily.

Mallory broke the silence first by coughing to conceal what John suspected was a snort of laughter.  “And you were just telling me before we arrived that you weren’t going to hire another smartarse,” he said, still grinning as the woman glared at him.

“He’d be O’Reilly’s problem, not mine,” the woman said crisply before turning back to John.  “In this day and age, information is as only as good as the people who keep it, and hacking is becoming a major threat to these records.”

“So you’re asking me to confirm what you think you already know?” John asked, standing up now.  Shaking his head, he said, “I’m sorry, but you will find it to be a waste of both of our times, repeating information that everyone knows.  Now if you’ll excuse me, ma’am, I will ask that you leave me be from here on out, I’m surprised it doesn’t say anywhere on there that I dislike being ambushed by random government officials.”  John paused, and then shook his head.  “I take that back, I’m not surprised.  Mr. Holmes wouldn’t put that on the report and sully his own name after all.”

“Doctor Watson, if I wanted to sully Mr. Holmes’s name, it would have been taken care of a long time ago.  As for you, we ‘kidnapped’ you in order to offer you an opportunity to return to a military setting without putting your life at risk,” the woman said in a curt tone, stopping John in his tracks.  “At MI6, we take _extreme_ care in selecting and contacting our employees, which is exactly why you are going to come back and answer the last few questions we have for you.”

MI6?  John kept a calm façade as he mentally ran through a list of cases that he could remember solving with Sherlock that involved an offended official.  Winchester had said that MI6 dealt with international affairs, but to John, it seemed as though the government was easily offended over the smallest infringements, so he and Sherlock could have overstepped the boundaries somewhere along the line without realizing it.  Not that it would have bothered the detective very much.  “As I mentioned to the woman who escorted me here, if this is about my former flatmate…”

“Which it is not,” the woman interrupted.  “Now sit down again, we’re not quite finished here.”

This time John obeyed without question, but remained on guard. 

“I hope I am assuming correctly when I say that you spoke to Doctor O’Reilly several days ago?” the woman asked.

“Yes, ma’am.  We were discussing one of his patients,” John said, wary now.  He had no idea what Bond did _now_ to warrant MI6’s notice, but knowing the former naval commander as well as he did, it could have been anything.   

“Yes… yes you were,” she said, a muscle twitching in her jaw as she closed the files in front of her.  Facing John, she said, “Doctor O’Reilly is in charge of the Medical Department at MI6, has been for the last thirty years.  It falls to him to handle all of our difficult patients, but as the world changes, so do the demands on his time.  Unfortunately, the word ‘Medical’ is now synonymous with ‘optional’ for a good portion of our employees, and the current change in attitude is proving to overwhelm O’Reilly.  We would like to have you working alongside Doctor O’Reilly in Medical, namely on said difficult patients.  Your training and work in the army, as well as handling your flatmate, should be enough preparation for this task.”

John was quiet for a moment, wondering how concerned he should be now.  “How ‘difficult’ are we talking about?” he asked finally.

“You will have two attendants charged specially with dragging them in if they do not arrive on their own initiative,” the woman said calmly.  “Getting them to actually follow your instructions will be a whole different story, but O’Reilly seems fairly confident in your abilities.  Of course, if these blog posts of yours are as true as you, and the few individuals involved, claim them to be, then you should have plenty of experience with dealing in difficult patients, is that not correct?”

John nodded, deciding not to mention that one of those ‘difficult’ patients had yet to resurface after disappearing with a concussion.  “I do have to ask though,” he said finally, “I suspect that MI6 does require a level of secrecy, and while my landlady wouldn’t know anything, I can’t just leave her,” he said finally.  “She is already recovering from my flatmate’s death, I can’t disappear on her either.”  The admission made him feel a bit guilty since he knew that he’d tried to look for other flats in the London area in the days immediately following Sherlock’s death, but had failed in that aspect in the end.

“That will not be an issue.  There are plenty of MI6 employees, within reason, who choose to remain in their current lives but under a cover story,” the woman said.  “Do keep in mind, Doctor Watson, that this will be treated as a permanent employment, so do not take this decision lightly.  Once you have joined, it will be extremely difficult and nearly impossible to resign, given the sensitive nature of the information regarding the patients that will be entrusted to your care.”

John tried not to let his surprise – and nerves – show, but suspected he failed when Mallory tilted his head in curiosity but otherwise did not say anything.  “Tall order then,” he said finally, leaning back in his seats.

“We are a military intelligence organization, Doctor Watson.  I will not lie to you and say that our employees have not been targeted before.  Enemies of the state have attacked more than once.”  She tilted her head, and then asked, “I suppose you heard of the bombing at the SIS headquarters?”

“Yes.”  The real question, John supposed, was who _didn’t_ hear of the bombings.  He’d been at lunch with Mike that day, when the telly in the restaurant immediately switched to live footage of the burning building.  It had also been one of those stretches of time where Quinn had disappeared for a few days only to reappear spontaneously as he’d been in the habit of doing at that time.  “That was only, what, two or three months ago?” he asked, frowning as he looked up at the woman.

“November.  We’ve just managed to get back into the repaired building,” the woman said grimly as she leaned down on the table with one arm so briefly that John realized she must have pressed the button underneath.  “Now, do you have any other questions?”

“Who do I contact if I do have more questions?” John asked, mentally reminding himself again to pretend as though he was facing off with Mycroft again and not let the woman intimidate him. 

“A mobile phone will be provided for your use.  Two numbers have been programmed into it, one will connect you to someone who will be able to provide the information that you desire, and the other you will call in exactly seven days to provide us with your final answer.  Should you decide not to take us up on our offer, you will never hear from us again.  Your life will continue on as normal.  However, should you decide to accept, an MI6 escort will arrive to your residence the next day and we will handle any last minute business such as your transferring from your current post,” she said, straightening.  “Will that be all?”

“Yes, ma’am, I believe so,” John said, standing up as did Mallory.  He accepted the colonel’s handshake, and then shook the woman’s hand as well.

Before he could speak though, the large doors behind him, which had been silent until now, opened with a slight creak, startling the doctor.  He turned around and only calmed when he saw Eve walking toward them again, the papers gone but small black box in her hands.  “Try not to lose or damage it, the programmer will be very put out if you do,” she said in a formal tone, all traces of familiarity gone from her face.  Pulling the lid off, she pulled out what John thought was an iPhone at first until he saw the subtle differences in the casing and size.  “The number on speed-dial one is the one for assistance, the number on speed-dial two is for your final decision.  Any attempts in changing the phone’s programming will result in a memory wipe.”  She made eye contact with John and asked, “Will that be all?”

“Yes, thank you,” John said just as formally.  He turned back to the woman and Mallory.  “Ma’am, sir, thank you for your time and for the offer, I will think it over,” he said firmly, hiding back a few traces of uncertainty that he still felt in his gut.  He felt like there was still a hidden catch somewhere.

“Remember, you only have one week.  Good evening, Doctor Watson,” the woman said before gesturing for him to leave the room. “Miss Moneypenny, do please stay here for a few minutes,” she added after a moment.

The dismissal clear, John did a quick check to make sure he had all his belongings before turning around and heading out the double doors again.

True to her word, Lawson was waiting for him, quietly chatting with the guard as John left.  She smiled brightly when she caught sight of him.  “All intact and none worse for wear,” she said.  “See? It wasn’t all that bad,” she added, gesturing that he follow her down the hall again.

“I’ll decide that for myself once I’ve had a chance to calm down,” John said, checking his watch to find that he still had ten to fifteen minutes before Mrs. Hudson called the police. 

“Yes, she does have that sort of effect on people.  There are very few individuals in the agency that have the will to stand up to her and hold their ground,” Lawson admitted, shrugging with one shoulder.  She seemed looser, more comfortable around John now.  He suspected that it had something to do with the fact that he’d already gotten a glimpse of her world, and she had nothing to worry about from him.  He wondered briefly which part of MI6 she worked in, but then decided to hold his peace in case he decided not to work for MI6.

“I do have a question for you though,” he said finally.  At her glance, he asked, “I am assuming that you work for the same agency as the woman, correct?”

“Yes, why?”

“I was wondering if this was how they approached you too?  About working for them?”

She laughed.  “No, they approached me in a drastically different manner.  Unfortunately, I cannot discuss that with you at the present time, given that we are in a public place and you are, for all intents and purposes, still a civilian,” she said, her brisk walk cleverly disguising the limp John had noticed earlier.  Whether it hurt or not to walk now, it was hard to tell since her facial expressions were still cheery from their discussion.  “I assume we will be going to Baker Street?” she asked, glancing once more at him.

John just nodded, both to confirm her question and accept the answer to his previous question as it was.  Then he pulled out his phone, the regular one, not the special one from MI6, and dialed Molly’s mobile to reassure her that he was going to arrive home in a little while.

He knew he wasn’t going to say anything about MI6 though, primarily to keep Molly and Mrs. Hudson from worrying and secondarily, he suspected that although the ‘interview’ was technically over now, Lawson would undoubtedly be monitoring him from the restaurant to the flat.  It was unnerving, knowing how much access MI6 evidently had to his life without him knowing, and in a way it was similar to Mycroft’s meddling but at the same time so much worse because unlike Mycroft, MI6 would react faster and more lethal to a potential threat, even if the threat was John himself.

He hoped he would make the right decision in the end.


	11. Chapter 11

“Status report, please.”

“Domestic or overseas?” Marcela asked, her voice clear despite the fact that it was her first time on the Q-Branch night staff and it was already well past two in the morning.  Q was relying on strategies from his childhood to stay awake at the moment; when Sherlock wanted to explore at night, it was always Q he dragged along, even when Mycroft was home for once.

Q looked up from where he’d been working on a pet project.  “We have a domestic mission?” he asked, confused.  He was pretty sure he had scanned through all ongoing missions less than an hour ago, and didn’t recall any ‘domestic’ missions. 

Marcela gestured to the steel Q-Branch doors.  “Double-oh seven has been testing our doors ever since you locked him out eight hours ago.  So the status report for that one is that he’s been locked out for a while now, but our doors can definitely withstand a potential invasion,” she said, grimacing as she glanced at a nearby computer.  “Apparently now he’s resorted to stealing various ID cards of whomever is still in the building, half of which don’t even have clearance to come in here…”

“And M nor Tanner won’t come back in until eight tomorrow morning.  Excellent,” Q replied, adjusting the monitors.  “And as for double-oh nine?”

“Holding in there.  She likes Doctor Watson, so there won’t be an issue there,” Marcela replied, tapping a few keys to bring up the report in question.

“She has a long standing regimen with O’Reilly, I suspect that he will switch double-oh four and nine when it comes to divvying up the double-ohs between the two of them if it comes down to it,” Q said, shrugging as he reflexively brought up the dual monitors with 005 and 006.  Both were normal: 005 was still skulking around Macau and 006 had gone into radio silence on Capri, but his tracker was still activated; the dot was moving around slowly on the southern part of the island.

So far, nothing had gone wrong.

“Sir, you can go home now, we can take it from here,” Marcela finally ventured after a few moments of silence.

“Perhaps once I’m absolutely sure that nothing will go wrong until eight,” he replied absently as he tapped a few keys on the laptop, zooming in on the satellite image of 005.  At the moment, the double-oh was manhandling a panicking American out of the nearest bar, the smaller man promising 005 anything if he could just let go of his collar already.  Shaking his head, Q switched back to the satellite maps that had both Double-Os before running another diagnostic on the security systems, absently rubbing his fingers against his temple.

He frowned when he found his mug of tea to be lighter than it should.  Sighing, he moved away from his workstation, wondering if they even still had Earl Grey in Q-Branch’s break room.  “Marcela, please continue to monitor things until I get back,” he said over his shoulder before heading to the small network of halls that led from the main room.  There technically _was_ a back door to the branch, along with a few emergency escape routes, but Q was not going to tell Bond about those unless it was a life or death situation. 

Although, judging from the unexpected presence in the staffroom, he wouldn’t have to at all.

“How the bloody hell did you get in here?” he asked, scowling at Bond, who was leaning back against the counter with a mug of coffee.  He looked rather calm for a highly trained assassin that had just been locked out of a department for eight hours, disobeying M and himself by extension (Q could not forget the threats from Baker Street).  Calm to the point where, despite his exhaustion, Q put his mental defenses up and braced for the next round of whatever the hell it was that the two of them were doing, trying to ignore the slight throbbing in the back of his head.

“Ran into Peterson.  He wanted me to deliver a package that never made it to Q-Branch earlier today because it was getting tested for bombs,” Bond said, nodding to small package that was sitting on the counter in an oddly familiar manila envelope.  “Told him I couldn’t get in anyway, he told me about the back doors.”

“Remind me to infect his personal laptop later.”  An empty threat, as Peterson worked in bomb disposal and while he would never put another employee at risk, especially a department head, he was still creative with paybacks. 

They all were, when it came down to it.

“Mm.” Bond watched him as he began searching through the cupboards for the Earl Grey tea.  “Who is ‘Sherrinford Holmes’ anyway?”

Q thanked all deities out there that he hadn’t been holding his mug, or anything else for that matter, at that moment.  “I beg your pardon?” he said, glancing warily at Bond.

Nodding to the package, Bond said, “The package.  It’s addressed to a Q-Branch staff member named ‘Sherrinford Holmes’, but I didn’t know if there was someone by that name on the staff.  Peterson didn’t know either, but he figured that you would know for sure.”

Frowning, Q picked up the package to examine the address label, hoping that he was completely wrong about the identity of the sender.

And then had to resist the urge to drop it as though it had burned him, especially once he remembered where he’d seen the packaging before.

During the ‘Final Problem’, as Sherlock had coined it, Q had been tasked with tracking down Moriarty via the computer networks, cleaning up any messes he’d left behind.  Q had managed to determine that while yes, Moriarty did have three accomplices in the security teams in the three places he’d broken into, it had taken an embedded code to start the electronic processes of unlocking doors in the prison, bank and at the Tower of London.  Q had gotten so absorbed in decoding and uprooting the codes, rendering them useless for later use, he’d missed Moriarty’s trial and the kidnapping of the American ambassador’s children.  Then _The Sun_ had come out with the promise of the tell-all, and Q’s attention had split further as he tried to finish up hunting down ‘Richard Brook’ _and_ monitoring security cameras for Moriarty, both at Sherlock’s command. 

But he _definitely_ recalled the two packages that had made their way into Sherlock’s possession, one via the ambassador’s son’s toy chest and the other through John Watson himself.  Q was pretty damn sure he was now holding Package Number Three, complete with the red seal, printed label and the fact that it ended up at _MI6_ under an alias he’d already erased…

_But Moriarty is dead._

_But someone knows._

“Sherrinford Holmes… he doesn’t work here, but I knew him from uni.  He studied architecture, went to Rome after graduation,” Q said finally, gingerly setting the package back down on the counter.  “Possible this was an error on the sender’s part, I’ll take it to the post office in the morning and have it mailed back to the sender,” he added briskly, pushing the package away in favor of getting his tea.  Swallowing down the flashes of panic, he added, “As I said, I can deal with it myself.”  In more ways than one; he couldn’t call Sherlock right now about what he prayed was an unlucky coincidence and that he just happened to have a very intelligent brother or mother who knew where he was at the moment and didn’t realize that he was working under an alias.

Or, at least that's what he hoped.

“I didn’t say you couldn’t.  Never did, in fact.  If there’s one thing I’ve ever learned from staying at MI6 for this long, it’s that a lack of front lines experience is the fastest killer out there,” Bond replied mildly as Q reluctantly pulled a box of black tea, finding it as the only caffeinated tea left in the cupboard.

“Same applies vice versa, seeing that one is relatively blind to the entire playing field when he is focused solely on the gun in front of him,” Q replied calmly as he filled the kettle to begin heating water.  “That’s what the extra set of eyes are for, seeing what the other cannot, especially when the playing field alters for another dimension.  The front lines don’t disappear, they only spread.”  Setting the tea down, he said finally, “I understand that you are used to playing against the odds, but Silva had proved that he was willing to destroy anything and any _one_ that stood in his way.  I was not ready to take that chance.  The success of that mission would have required full cooperation on both our parts, and I just wasn’t ready.”  Making sure the water wasn't going to splash out, he added, “Something about it all seemed very off to me.”

“How?”

“It was eerily similar to another ‘mission’ I had to run, something I did before MI6 found me.  That time, someone died.  Poor planning on both our parts, but hindsight is twenty-twenty. The point is, this parallel made me worry that M, and possibly you, could die."

Bond had sidled a little closer when Q’s back was turned.  “And your brother?” he prompted, blue eyes watching him carefully.

Q nearly resisted the urge to flick a glance at the package.  “We were close growing up, we had a major falling out, didn’t talk for years, and were in the process of fixing things when this happened,” he said curtly before pulling the kettle off the small cooker.  Pouring the water, he said, “I don’t need sympathy or anything of it.  All I did in response was to grant my mother mercy by not telling her of my MI6 employment when the time came, nor that I had ‘died’.”  Letting the tea steep, he turned and leaned over to where the package was resting.  “As for Mr. Holmes, I suspect he is related to the government official Mycroft Holmes, and the late consulting detective Sherlock Holmes.  If I can’t track down his current address, then I’ll just hand it off to the last Mr. Holmes,” he said as he studied the package for anything that the bomb disposal might have missed, which he knew to be unlikely since the disposal team were extremely thorough with everything.

“Sherlock Holmes… that’s the name of John Watson’s former flatmate, isn’t it?” 007 said, frowning as he recalled something.

“Mm, yes.  I won’t send it to Watson, he doesn’t need another reminder when he’s healing,” Q said absently, setting the package on top of his coat before walking back to the black tea.  Hoping that it would have enough caffeine to tide him over for the next couple of hours, he took a sip before glancing at Bond, who was still watching him.  “Anything else you wanted?” he asked after a moment’s silence. 

“Yes, to know what exactly Alec was up to right now.”

Q blinked at the sudden turnaround in conversation, but then belatedly recalled a moment later that ‘Alec’ was actually 006’s real name.  “Um, still in Italy… let me show you,” he said, gesturing toward the hall with his head.  Leaving the package and coat in the staffroom, he left with his mug tight in his grasp and Bond right behind him, silent as ever.  He pushed the worrisome package out of his mind; he now knew full well who could deal with it and that person wasn’t there now.

He ignored the soft wave of mutters as the night staff realized that 007 had managed to break into Q-Branch after all, and instead he shut down the laptop that had his pet project before pulling up on the monitors an aerial map of Capri as well as the mission brief.  “Ottavio Arnoni is an Italian mafia boss who has been, up to this point, quietly rebuilding his branch of the Mafia.  The CIA had collapsed his operations several years ago, but now it’s our turn.  Arnoni, for reasons still unknown, has kidnapped three British diplomats who were touring Sicily,” he said, pulling up the photographs of the three diplomats as well as the last satellite images of the three before their disappearances.  “Double-oh six has been given orders to go in and retrieve the diplomats while Q-Branch tracks down Arnoni’s funding.”  Pulling up a timeline that Boothroyd had started several months ago, he added, “The three diplomats have had no prior connections to the crime syndicate, they were there in a gesture of goodwill to the Italians.”

“So they were kidnapped because of politics,” 007 said, studying the screens.

“That or they wanted our attention, which isn’t far-fetched because Silva was reputed to have a large network at his disposal, and any distraction from him could prove costly to us,” Q replied patiently.

“And your response?” 007 said, still examining the briefings.

“Double-oh five.  He is in Silva’s last recorded location, Macau, hunting him down.  Although if the last check-in is anything to go by, he’s lost the trail and is relying on panicking American informants for the next step, given that he was dragging one away when I saw him.  I suspect Silva went back in order to recover what he could from the site before disappearing,” Q said, tapping one of the keys and bringing up the image as he sipped his tea.  It was starting to soothe not only the headache, but also the aches in his shoulder and leg.

“Speaking of informants,” 007 said carefully, and Q sighed to himself.  “How did you run into Luca Nascimbeni in the first place?”

“The short version is that my brother and I got lost in Venetian catacombs, and he pulled us out and returned us to our mother.  As a thank-you, my brother cleared his name in a high profile murder case that was going on at the time.  Nascimbeni hasn’t forgotten it, and he insists on helping us every time when we’re in Italy.”  Stifling an unexpected yawn, he added, “Asking Luca to treat double-oh six like family just means that he’ll keep a closer eye on double-oh six for the duration of the mission, and provide anything double-oh six needs to the best of his ability.”

“And the worst-case scenario?”

“Remember how I said I was named ‘Quinn’ because I was part of a family of five children?  My oldest brother is a bit too nosy for his own good, if he ever heard that Luca was assisting an MI6 agent, he’d kidnap the agent in an effort to find out who in the family set up the arrangement.  Then he’d possibly offer to pay double-oh six to keep an eye on me.  He does that sort of thing, but I’d fear for his safety in this case,” Q replied, remembering Sherlock’s fury when Mycroft had kidnapped John.  006 would, more likely than not, kill anyone who tried to kidnap him, and then finish the night off with charging after Mycroft.  There was a reason Mycroft employed an ex-army sniper as his bodyguard, given that a large percentage of the people he dealt with also had trained killers at their disposal.  “Nothing more serious than that.”

“I see.  How did you pick up Sigerson?” 007 asked, finally glancing over at Q.

 _I had to live with him for thirteen years.  He drives you crazy after a while._   “He worked for my previous employer, I saw that he was useful, and offered to pay him more money if he could help me,” Q replied calmly.  “There’s nothing more to the story.”

“What was in the case that you gave him?”

Q opened his mouth to reply instinctively with the truth, but caught himself just in time.  “A memory drive with falsified information, he’s not smart enough to double check it before selling it or doing whatever with it.  I _understand_ ,” he said, holding up a hand to forestall Bond’s protests, “That it’s a risk, in case the information does become relevant later or come back to haunt me later, but I’m running on instinct here, just as you do in the field.”

For a moment, neither of them said anything.  Q was silently praying that 007 would accept the words without question when the agent said, “Why do I get the feeling that our positions have reversed in this particular case?”

“Well, it isn’t a formal mission, so technically that’s _not_ the case,” Q said, shrugging with one shoulder as he finished off the tea. He briefly closed his eyes at the ache in the back of his head. "Give the caffeine a moment to kick in, I think I'm coming up with a caffeine headache," he said after a moment, ignoring Bond's head tilt.

“What is it that you usually drink?  Black tea?” Bond asked, raising an eyebrow in confusion.

“Earl Grey, and then whatever’s in the cupboard after that.  My older brother used to run on stamina alone, collapsed for hours after,” Q said, allowing a smile to creep through.  “My sisters always gave him a hard time for it.”

“So two brothers and two sisters, and you were the youngest of the bunch,” Bond said, raising an eyebrow as Q nodded.

“Had to get Mum’s attention somehow,” he teased, tapping the laptop before turning back to the monitors.  “Not our boss that is, my mum,” he added after a moment’s thought.  “Never wanted M’s attention, if I had been in better possession of my faculties the day I caught MI6’s attention, you and I would not be here discussing this.”  Stifling a yawn, he slid off his stool again, shutting the laptops and powering down the monitors.  “I need to get more caffeine in order to finish this.”

“Finish what?  It’s almost three in the morning, and you’re still recovering from the gunshot wounds,” Bond said, moving so that he remained at Q’s side.  Why he was doing that, Q didn’t want to know nor did he particularly care at the moment, the headache proving to be the bigger problem at the moment.

“You’re one to talk, O’Reilly mentioned to me that you have an allergy of going to Medical, one that he’s hoping to remedy soon,” Q said, ignoring him and forcing himself to walk with a steady gait despite the fact that his leg was now acting up thanks to Bond’s reminder.  “I’ll go to Medical once I’m confident that double-oh five and six won’t have a calamity the moment I turn my back.”

“Can’t Marcela or R handle it?” Bond asked casually as he remained at Q’s side.

“R went home, and Marcela, while a competent staffer, doesn’t have quite the clearance level in the event of an emergency,” Q replied calmly as he started walking to the staffroom again, shaking his head slightly. He blinked when his vision swam slightly, almost unaware that he'd staggered until he found himself bracing against an arm. "What the fuck--"

"You're starting to wobble, you should lie down and rest, especially if you do have a concussion like John suspects," Bond said, his hands gently lowering Q towards the ground, much to the other's confusion as he tried to think past the growing ache in his head. "I'm putting you in Medical, they can keep an eye on you for now," he said, grunting as Q felt him readjust his arms around Q's form, scooping Q up a moment later despite the squawk of surprise.

“ _Double-oh seven!_ What do you think you're doing?” Q snapped, attempting to wiggle free only to pause when the agent's grip tightened as though warning. "Please put me down, double-oh seven, I can walk."

“Well, you can thank Sigerson for the inability to do that,” Bond said, shouldering a semi-familiar door and taking a route that only seemed vaguely familiar to Q; _one of the back ways, most likely. Longer, but less chances of being seen by someone else._

“What if double-oh six and five get into trouble?” Q asked, sobering at the reminder of more pressing matters.  He tried to wriggle out of Bond’s grip again, blinking as he stifled an unexpected yawn, but failed to break free.

“You’ll be the second one we’ll wake up in an emergency, R will be the first.  Besides, he’s learning from you, right?  Tonight we’ll teach him how to get in bed and start working in the middle of an emergency,” Bond said, using his shoulder to press the button for lift. 

“But if something happens-”

“You have my word that I will wake you up if it comes down to that, Q.”

Q tilted his head back to properly glare at the double-oh agent.  “Your word… you expect me to take your word when it's so difficult to trust you in the first place?” he asked without thinking, fighting to keep his eyes from closing in exhaustion as he felt a familiar curl of buried anger and resentment-- _I tried to follow my mandate and keep you alive._.

Bond didn't immediately reply, just looked down at Q, who saw only a startling blue pair of eyes before succumbing to exhaustion.

 


	12. Chapter 12

Q woke up with thick cotton in his head.

Groaning, he blinked at the dimmed lights above him, staring at white fuzziness for what felt like hours but was probably minutes.  The more he woke up though, the clearer his vision became.  Well, as clear as it could without his glasses anyway.  He felt his forehead scrunching up as he tried to remember what had happened last night, and where he was.  He felt a little too clear headed for it to be a hangover, and besides, he hadn’t gone out drinking since university-

Then it hit him.

Q-Branch.  The Package.  Bond.  Drugged tea.

Q groaned, making a mental note to murder Bond himself once he was feeling better.  Which wasn’t going to be anytime soon, if the muffled pounding was anything to go by as bits and pieces from last night started to fill in.  Then, ignoring the aching feeling in his limbs and head, he forced himself to sit up, propping up against the pillows on his elbows.  He stiffened when he heard two knocks on the closed door before it creaked open.  “Christ, Bond, a moment of-” he began, still too woozy to properly work up an angry tone.

“Double-oh seven is currently not on MI6 premises, however I can summon him if you so wish,” O’Reilly said, entering with two objects in his hands.  He set one down on the side table next to Q’s bed and pressed the other – Q’s glasses – into his hand.  “He’s with Doctor Watson right now, doing whatever it is that two old army buddies do in their spare time.  I told him I wouldn’t tell M about his little deviation from duty if he kept himself in one piece and out of the news.  Although, come to think of it, I also promised him I would call once you woke up.”

“Please don’t, I need five minutes to breathe without him hovering over my shoulder,” Q said, fumbling before he managed to slip his glasses on again.  Blinking as everything came back into sharp focus again, he asked, “Where am I?”

“Medical.  Specifically the quiet ward, double-oh seven advised that I keep this room on reserve for you.  I wasn’t sure at the time if he was serious, but then he told me about your insomnia, and so I agreed,” O’Reilly said airily.

Q made a face.  “And here I thought we were teaming up on _him_ , not on me,” he replied, scowling slightly.

“Oh, we’re still teaming up on him, you need to be kept in one piece for that to happen.  On that note, thank you for sending Doctor Watson my way.  We are still waiting for his final decision, but I am looking forward to pinning down double-oh six, seven and eight for numerous counts of pre-release escapes,” O’Reilly said smirking.  He checked his watch, and then said, “For the record, in case you were curious, it’s almost noon.”

“ _What?”_ Q blurted out, head snapping up to look at him.  “The missions-”

“Are in good hands.  R is there for a reason, remember?” O’Reilly said, passing over the teacup and saucer he’d put down on the side table.  “There’s nothing in there that shouldn’t be, I promise,” he added, noting Q’s wary expression.  “I was the one who told double-oh seven to give you last night’s tea, there was a crushed painkiller in there.  I didn’t know how else to get you the necessary medication, especially since you _should_ be resting because of your leg and shoulder,” he added, raising an eyebrow at the pristine bandages. 

Q groaned, the tea proving to not be worth the effort of resistance.  “I will never accept another cup of tea from you ever again, after this one anyway,” he said, sniffing the tea before taking a sip of the comfortingly familiar Earl Grey.  Then he frowned, and then asked, “Dare I ask how you changed the bandages while I was _asleep?_ ”

O’Reilly shrugged.  “Practice.  I’ve grown particularly adept at changing bandages while the patient is still unconscious.  After all, it’s the only way I’ll ever be able to patch up reckless double-ohs,” he said, sighing.  Setting down a paracetamol on the side table next to the already present glass of water, he said, “Take this before you leave.  Go easy today; your thirty-six hour stunt wasn’t good for your recovery.  I’d ask that you even head home and rest, but I suspect you won’t listen to me.”

“Well, then I’ll take lunch off to eat and change clothes at home, how is that?” Q asked, unable to keep the sarcasm out of his tone.  _And get that bloody package out of my office while I’m at it_ , he thought before gingerly testing his shoulder. 

“Do what you will, I’ll be in my office, as I have been _all_ day.  I can never seem to find an opportunity to leave nowadays, which is rather aggravating,” O’Reilly complained as he turned on his heel to leave the room.  “I do not see how double-oh seven expects me to keep an eye on your activity anyway, given I’m drowning in paperwork _he_ generates each time he escapes my office and I have to start all over again with everything,” he said, shaking his head before leaving the room, shutting the door behind him.

Q silently thanked the deity watching out for him that O’Reilly was an ally.

Getting the package itself was not an issue.  Sneaking past R and the rest of the daytime Q-Branch staff without getting noticed was a little more difficult, especially since he stopped long enough to snatch his tablet and download the special app that would allow him to stay linked to Q-Branch.  Then he snuck back out the way he’d come, through the back entrance. 

He ignored the stunned expressions of the entry security staff as he left the SIS building; never before had they seen him _leave_ the building before nighttime.  Q was more focused anyway on figuring out the identity of who had sent the package; Moriarty was dead, Mycroft thought _Q_ was dead, and Lady Holmes thought her youngest son was in Rome, working for an architectural firm.  He’d erased the name of _Sherrinford Quinn Holmes_ from all official electronic records and created new ones for himself.  Sherlock was the only one who knew Q’s secrets, and this was too sick of a joke even for him since it had been these packages that had cost him everything.

Q felt as though the package, tucked neatly under his arm with his jacket on top, was going to burn his arm off if he didn’t do something about it _fast_.  He couldn’t even bloody well call Sherlock just yet; he needed to find the secure mobile that he’d stupidly left back in the office…

_Bam!_

“Oops, sorry Q, I didn’t see you there,” Tanner said, easily catching and stabilizing Q before the latter fell over from the force of the impact.  “Getting lunch?  There’s a fantastic Italian place that I can recommend if you’re interested,” he offered.

Q shook his head slightly to dispel the slight dizzying sensation.  “Ah, no thank you, Tanner.  I have to pick something up for the branch, I’ll be coming right back.  I can just grab a snack on the way back,” he said, offering what he hoped was a sincere enough smile to pass muster.

“Right.  Well then, I suppose I’ll see you later,” Tanner said, smiling briefly before stepping past Q. 

Q meanwhile headed to the curb and was about to hail a taxi when a black car pulled up… a rather familiar black car come to think of it.  Q sighed, glancing down the walk while gauging how far he could get before he was cornered. 

“Mr. Winchester?  Mr. Holmes would like a word with you,” Anthea said, leaning slightly out of open door.  “I trust that won’t be an issue?”

“I don’t know.  How angry is he?”

She shrugged.  “I expect him to be more relieved to know that you are alive as opposed to angry because you lied.  After all, he can’t exactly throw stones, now can he?” she said, raising an eyebrow.

Q swallowed back the quip about Mycroft’s weight that came to mind and said instead, “While you do present an excellent point, may I inquire as to how you found me here?” he asked, glancing up and down the walk while praying that no one was watching the exchange.

“Lieutenant Falsworth found you the other day, remember?  Mr. Holmes didn’t quite believe him,” Anthea said, gesturing to the car seat.  “Why don’t you sit down, and we can discuss things on the way over?” she offered.

Q hesitated, and then just got in, well aware that the security staff behind him was watching the exchange.  “Keep in mind, Anthea, that if I’m not back in an hour, Mycroft will be getting an unpleasant visitor,” he warned, closing the door behind him.

“I think he can handle it, he has Lieutenant Falsworth with him today,” Anthea replied, picking up the Blackberry to send a quick text message.  Setting the phone down on her knee, she glanced at him and said, “I trust you are well, Sherrinford?”

Q grimaced at his name.  “Relatively, got a bit of a nasty shock last night,” he said, holding up the package that up until this point had been resting on his lap underneath the jacket.  Anthea raised an eyebrow as he added, “I know it’s not from Mum, but I was hoping it was from Mycroft.”

To his growing dismay, Anthea shook her head.  “Sorry.  I handle both his private and official correspondence, and I never saw that package go through.  The only exception would be if he personally mailed it, which I doubt,” she said, leaning back against the seat.

“Honestly, I would be shocked if he did,” Q replied as Anthea’s phone buzzed. 

Murmuring a quiet apology, she picked up the phone and began texting again.  Q meanwhile turned to look outside the window, where London breezed by as the car drew closer to their destination.  It had been eighteen months since he last saw his oldest brother.  Q had worked for him for the first year and a half after Sherlock ‘died’, and was always careful to maintain a professional working relationship with Mycroft.  That, in addition to the ten-year age gap and the tension after the Fall, had set the grounds for the argument that drove Q to the pubs in a fit of childish anger… after which he’d gotten so drunk that hacking into MI6 seemed like a fantastic idea.  It was his sloppiest hacking job too, given it only took MI6 three days to catch him.  Boothroyd had told ‘Quinn’, after integrating him into Q-Branch, that while the actual damage was very minimal, the consequences were huge; he’d accidentally switched M’s security access with that of the newest recruit.

He hadn’t lied to Bond when he said that they wouldn’t be talking if he’d been in better possession of his faculties that night.  Best-case scenario, he’d be on the Continent by now, assisting Sherlock in whatever the hell it was he was doing.

“I assume you know where to go?” Anthea asked as the car pulled up to the Diogenes Club entrance.

“Unfortunately.”  Q grabbed the package and his jacket.  “Take care, Anthea,” he said before climbing out.

“As you,” she replied when he turned to shut the car door.

He was familiar with the corridors of the Diogenes, having visited Mycroft more than once here when he was younger and with their mother.  He nodded in acknowledgement to one of the staff as he passed, but otherwise did not speak.  He knew the rules well enough by now.  Mycroft’s private lounge was still easy to find, and after picking the lock like Sherlock would have done, Q let himself in.

It was as quiet and spacious as he remembered it.  Modeled after Mycroft’s study at home, the room was designed for comfort rather than intimidation.  The catch was that it was for _Mycroft’s_ comfort, not that of his visitors, which created the illusion of intimidation for the unwary guest.  Supposedly, it gave Mycroft the advantage in discussion and debates in this room, so Q suspected it wasn’t going to change any time soon.

“Sherrinford.”

Q silently applauded his ability to not flinch when people snuck up on him, even if he was starting to get annoyed with the sneaking around.  “Mycroft,” he greeted, turning around to face his brother.  Then he paused.

Mycroft looked as impeccable as ever, most likely having just come from a meeting with the Prime Minister or some other equally important official.  But even though Q hadn’t seen him in so long, he could easily tell that Mycroft had had significant weight loss since their last meeting.  Q sighed, feeling the twinge of guilt when he realized how much stress Mycroft had been in for the last three years, between Sherlock and Q faking their deaths, the last fight between him and Q, and a free Silva on top of everything else the government threw at him.

“Please, sit,” Mycroft said, gesturing to the plush armchairs with the umbrella.  “Other than the gun wounds, I trust you are well?”

Q frowned.  “How did you know about that?  Did Sherlock tell you?” he asked, walking toward the indicated chair.

“He told me everything once I threatened to cut off all and any connections he might still have to Doctor Watson, as tenuous as they may be.  Your assistance in his ‘suicide’, your blunder with MI6 and eventual promotion,” Mycroft replied, moving to sit down on the armchair opposite of Q.  “It appears you can now legally acquire weapons for him.  Do you wish for any tea?  Or another refreshment?” he asked.

“No, still haven’t eaten lunch yet and I woke up less than an hour ago,” Q said, grimacing at the mention of the thefts.  “Lieutenant Falsworth told you about our encounter the other day, didn’t he?”

“Indeed.  That was what led to my questioning of Sherlock.  Honestly, I don’t know whether to reward or punish the two of you for managing to pull that off without me noticing,” Mycroft said, clearly irked that he’d overlooked the whole scheme.  “Even with the story of your ‘death’, I should have noticed…”

“How about you reward us now, and then punish us later.  Besides, it’s not your fault; you had other things to worry about.  But do keep that in mind if you ever get a story that Sherlock drowned while swimming,” Q remarked dryly. 

Mycroft shook his head.  “I should have kept a better eye on the two of you that day, you wouldn’t be afraid of planes and he of the water.”  Sighing, he said, “Although, if my latest meetings are anything to go by, we have more pressing problems at hand?”

“Which one do you want to hear first?” Q countered.

“Silva.  We had him, and then we lost him.  The Prime Minister is furious, as is Arthur Kirkland.  Word has yet to reach Her Majesty that a terrorist that already threatened England once is still at large, and I would rather she did not have to hear it,” Mycroft said, resting his hands on top of the umbrella.

“I made a mistake and let him loose, then tried to fix it without killing M or her escort, Agent double-oh seven,” Q replied stiffly.  “I felt that double-oh seven was not quite capable of protecting her, given that Silva had already demonstrated the lengths he would go to in order to kill her.”

“Hmmm, no doubt he will try again.  We will have to take care of her first, before Silva makes his move,” Mycroft said thoughtfully.  “I trust your judgment call, little brother, but we need to proceed carefully now.  Sherlock is running into criminal network entanglements, and I suspect that Silva is forcefully reclaiming what he believes to be rightfully his.  Sherlock suspects, and I’m afraid to say that I agree with him, that Silva may have even recruited the Italian mob bosses to provide a distraction for MI6 and other foreign intelligences while he painstakingly rebuilds what he lost.”

“Which means that Ottavio Arnoni’s capture of the diplomats was a distraction gambit?” Q asked, silently irritated that he’d overlooked that possibility.

 _“Possibly_ , we’re not entirely sure yet.  As for Silva’s location, even that is currently unknown, but if I had to guess, I would say Italy.  Easier to monitor the mob bosses that way,” Mycroft said as the doors to his study opened.  “Thank you Anthea,” he said as the woman in question brought a small tray with a glass of water and a paracetamol on it.  He waited until she’d left and closed the doors behind her before speaking again.  “Sherlock of course is convinced that Moriarty survived _his_ suicide, and with no body yet to prove otherwise, I suspect that we are not quite ready to finish this ‘fairytale’.”  Mycroft said, scowling at the word ‘fairytale’.

 _Fairytale._   Q belatedly remembered the package from the night before.  “In which case, here is your second piece of evidence to support that conclusion,” he said, tossing it onto the small table between the two of them.  Taking the glass of water, he added, “MI6’s already cleared it, but I don’t know if I want to open it.”

“MI6 has never met Jim Moriarty.  It’s safe to open, if his minions are expending the time and effort to send it, he must want you alive after you open it.  It’s the only way the threat or taunt will work,” Mycroft said, eyeing the package with distrust. 

For a moment, neither brother did anything.

Then Q gritted his teeth, silently cursed Mycroft in case he died, and then, after setting the glass down again, reached for the package.

It took him a few minutes; his hands were shaking more than he thought they would.  Mycroft watched in silence as he tore the packaging off, both braced for the fatal catch to the package as Q gingerly upended the package so the contents would land on the floor.

_Thump!_

Mycroft would deny it for years to come, but Q saw him jump at the same time as he did.  “What is it?” he finally asked, straightening to get a better look.

“A book.”  Q felt the tension drain out of his shoulders.  “It’s just a book.”

“Sherlock received a book at one time, that fairytale book,” Mycroft warned as Q turned it over in his hand.  “Look where that got him.”  He tilted his head, and then said, “Perhaps you should let him take a look at it.”

“I don’t know, where is he now?”

“Marseilles, last I checked.  I told him that we may be expecting trouble here at home, so I told him not to wander off _too_ far in case.  It is frankly disturbing that you’re now being dragged through this… I don’t like where this is going at all,” Mycroft said, hands tightening on the umbrella handle.  He glanced at Q and asked, “What do you have in regards to personal security?”

“Right now, a temporary bodyguard.  It’s for only while his arm is healing though.  After that, he’s gone, which is perfectly fine with me,” Q said, scowling.  “He hates me as it is…”

“And he did quite a dismal job protecting you from Sherlock, so it seems,” Mycroft said, eyeing the corner of bandage visible underneath Q’s shirt and cardigan.  “Even if it was just an act, he should have taken his job more seriously.  Who is he?”

Q thought about lying, but when he saw Mycroft’s eyebrow rise, he thought better of it.  “Agent double-oh seven of MI6, one of the best.  He’s also known as Commander James Bond of the Royal Navy.  My, don’t you _dare_ do anything to him,” he said, bristling as Mycroft raised his hands in mock surrender. 

“I was merely thinking that we can take advantage of his negligence and having you disappear until the threat to you is taken care of,” Mycroft said thoughtfully.

Q was already shaking his head.  “Double-oh seven has already made it quite clear that he’d be keeping a closer watch on me because I-”

“Yet here we are, discussing treason without him.  Sherrinford, at least allow me the peace of mind with a contingency plan, I don’t want to actually lose you,” Mycroft said quietly.  “It was nerve-wracking enough with Sherlock, and what will Mummy say once she finds out that you lied to all of us, assuming of course you neglected to tell her about this stunt of yours?”

Q tightened his grip on the book out of fear at the thought of his mother’s anger.  “She… she thinks I’m working in architecture in Rome… I was going to tell her that I was resigning and moving back to London,” he admitted.

Mycroft frowned.  “But I’ve been emailing her, I told her everything…”

“You were actually talking with me, and I’ve been talking with Mum.  She thinks you’ve been talking with her and vice versa, had to keep my story straight,” Q said, shrinking in his spot as Mycroft’s frown darkened.

The elder was silent for a moment.  Then he said, “I am beginning to wonder if perhaps your talent was wasted while you were my security chief.”

“No, I didn’t mind,” Q said warily, noting that Mycroft’s expression was becoming unreadable.  That was never good.  “Now what was this contingency plan you had in mind?” he asked, leaning back in his chair, hoping to distract Mycroft.

It worked.  “Right.  Here is what I was thinking, given what we have to work with,” Mycroft said, leaning forward and procuring a pen out of nowhere and began to talk.  Q checked his watch quickly, noting that he had about twenty minutes left before someone noticed him missing. 

He was going to be cutting it close.


	13. Chapter 13

For the first four days after the meeting with the MI6 officials, John had no idea what to do next.

On one hand, the offer was extremely tempting.  The woman was right in that he’d be in a military setting without the risk involved.  While he didn’t think it would be the cure-all for his leg, the work and the high demand involved would most likely take his mind off of Sherlock and anything else that would otherwise be considered ‘distracting’. 

On the other hand, it meant that he would be away from Molly and St. Barts, the last vestiges of his old life with Sherlock.  He knew that he’d always talked to others about moving, about cutting all ties with the last reminders of Sherlock Holmes, but when faced with the actual decision… he just couldn’t.  His flatmate’s things were even neatly packed away in his old (seldom-used) bedroom; John couldn’t imagine moving into the bedroom on the main floor since his leg was acting up again.  As a doctor, he knew it would be a logical choice, but as an ex-flatmate, he couldn’t bear the thought of someone else being there.  It just felt _wrong_.  Mrs. Hudson seemed to understand that as well, and never once asked for enough rent to cover for the two people who should be living there.

However, John did catch one thing the woman had said; that O’Reilly, who already confirmed of having James as a patient, worked for MI6.  He waited until he and James were quietly reading their respective newspapers one morning; Quinn apparently was in the company medical wing for attempting a second all-nighter in a row, and did not need watching for the morning.  Quinn’s regular doctor had been tasked with keeping an eye on him, and would alert James once Quinn was on the move again.

“James?” he finally asked.

“Mm?”

“You work for MI6, don’t you?”

Silence, and John glanced up to see his friend eyeing him warily.  “That won’t be a problem, will it?” James asked finally, unknowingly echoing a question that Sherlock had once asked John early on in their time together.

“Nope, none at all,” John said before going back to his newspaper.

A moment of silence, and then “Who told you?”

“The woman who spoke to me.  Short, older, sharp temper?”

James snorted.  “Really?  I’ll have to remind her of that whenever she starts giving me a hard time about leaking information,” he said, reaching over to his mobile as it started buzzing.  “Hello?”  Then he sighed, and said, “Hang on, just tell me where he went and I’ll go get the brat.”  He hung up after a moment and said, “And here I thought we were at a truce.”

“Try either giving him space or see where his frustration is coming from, maybe there’s something we’re not taking into consideration because we don’t know about it,” John pointed out as James stood up.  “Like his dealings with Sigerson, something could have happened that we don’t know about.”

A shadow crossed over James’s face.  “Good point, I’ll talk to him.”

John never heard the end of that story, but the looming decision became prevalent a few days later, when he woke up on the day of the deadline.  He was breathing quickly, the vivid memories of the Fall lingering as he fought the sleepiness away and sat up despite the fuzziness in his head and the ache in his limbs.  Getting out of bed was painful only because of his leg and shoulder, which acted up in the bad weather, and he’d been enough of an idiot to leave the paracetamol downstairs.

He noticed the mobile Eve had given him, still sitting on the table where he’d left it yesterday after a lengthy conversation with Riley Williams, who turned out to be on the other end of the number he was supposed to call when he had questions, and had been rather helpful.  O’Reilly however hadn’t been available to handle questions, and Riley had been too busy to check.

John also turned to Molly for advice, waiting until it was just the two of them in the morgue before asking her.  He didn’t say much about the job itself, well aware that MI6 evidently had spies _everywhere_ , but said that he’d gotten another offer.  She’d encouraged him to take it, but something still struck John as _wrong_.  It was just something he couldn’t explain—perhaps the lack of eye contact when she’d talked to him?

Still wearing his bathrobe, he walked into the kitchen to find Mrs. Hudson bustling around.  “Mrs. Hudson?  Is everything all right?” he asked, bemused to find her there.  He was used to finding the landlady in the flat at random intervals, but that was usually later in the day.

“What?  Oh yes, I do believe so, dear.  I heard a thump earlier this morning and it had come from upstairs, so I thought I would come up and take a look,” she said, sniffling as she turned away from him again.  “Then I found _that_ in the back of the dishes cabinet, almost turned around to yell at Sherlock about it,” she added, nodding to a jar of cloudy liquid that had floating green chunks in it.

John stared at it for a moment, torn between laughing, crying, and groaning in exasperation.  “Three years later and we’re _still_ finding his bloody experiments, right when I thought I’d cleaned them all out,” he said, shaking his head albeit with a small smile.  Sighing, he eyed the jar and said, “You don’t think Quinn would get rid of that for us if I paid him, do you?”

“Oh John, leave the poor boy alone, he’s working enough as it is.  Would you believe that he didn’t come home again last night?  There has to be labor laws or some kind of regulations that restricts the amount of hours he can work or something like that,” Mrs. Hudson said, eyeing the jar with familiar distaste.  “Do you even think he remembered this one?”

“Not likely.  Even I don’t remember when he did that one,” John admitted, doing his best to recall that particular experiment.

“Ah, well, could have been an early one,” Mrs. Hudson said, sighing.  “I remember the day he died, the funeral, everything, but I still keep expecting him to come home all bloody or covered in whatever he was crawling in last.” She sighed, and then said, “I was talking to Quinn about it a couple days ago, when he stopped in for a late lunch.  While he also believes Sherlock was innocent, he was rather _cavalier_ about the whole thing.  He doesn’t believe Sherlock died at all.”

Hope, forbidden and welcome all at once, suddenly swelled in John’s chest even though something felt wrong at the same time, as in something wasn’t quite adding up.  “What did he mean by that?” he asked, careful to keep his voice steady.

“I don’t know, I asked him not to continue talking like that.  He apologized all right, but didn’t seem too affected.  He’s got that same attitude Sherlock got whenever he didn’t want to listen, at least he was more polite about it,” Mrs. Hudson said, shaking her head.  “Those two could easily be brothers if they wanted.”

John smiled.  “I don’t know if they would have tolerated each other that much.  I can see where you’re coming from though; I did notice that the physical resemblance is uncanny,” he said.  “I would have been surprised if Mycroft hadn’t mistaken him for Sherlock at least once, when Quinn was still working for him.”

“Oh!  Speaking of Mr. Holmes, when Quinn arrived late afternoon that day we talked, it was Mr. Holmes’s car that dropped him off.  You know, the same one that Mr. Holmes would use when he came to speak to Sherlock,” Mrs. Hudson said as she checked the kettle for any dead animals before filling it up with water.

“Or kidnap me.  It makes sense though, Quinn used to work for him,” John agreed, remembering the numerous times Mycroft had kidnapped him.  “Mrs. Hudson, I actually have a question for you, advice really…”

“About whatever’s been on your mind recently?” Mrs. Hudson teased gently at John’s expression.  “Just because you think I’m not watching doesn’t mean I actually aren’t.”

“All right… do you remember that night I came home late about a week ago, long after Molly arrived?” he asked as he started to make breakfast for the two of them.

“Oh, yes.  Molly was very worried about you.  Even more so when you came home and refused to talk about it,” Mrs. Hudson said as the kettle began to whistle.

“Well, someone ‘kidnapped’ me similar to Mycroft’s style, right from the entrance of St. Bart’s.  Turns out it was MI6, they wanted to talk to me privately,” John said, jumping when Mrs. Hudson dropped a teacup with a gasp.

“MI6??  Oh no, John, what did you and Sherlock do _now_ that got their attention?  Nothing good ever came from them,” Mrs. Hudson said, eyes wide as she turned to John, who was awkwardly bending down to pick up the bits of broken china.

“Nothing, nothing, we didn’t do anything to make them angry.  Although the woman I spoke to, she did bring up both Irene Adler and Baskerville.  I did my best to answer her questions without breaking any of the agreements we made with Mycroft in regards to those two cases,” John said, finishing up with cleaning the mess.

“Well, what did they want then?  Was it a case?  While I wouldn’t discourage you from taking on cases again, I would ask that you at least took someone with you, just to help if anything,” Mrs. Hudson said, her eyes flickering to John’s leg for a moment.  Taking down a new cup and saucer, she added, “I can’t tell you how worried I was about Sherlock whenever he went gallivanting off by himself.”

“No, it wasn’t a case.  It was a job offer.  They were looking to add another person to the medical staff and work in assisting their chief medical officer with particularly stubborn patients,” John explained, obediently sitting down at the table when Mrs. Hudson gestured for him to.

She was quiet for a moment.  “Well, that’s good, right?  Will you have to leave Baker Street then?” she asked as she headed back to the stove to finish breakfast.

“No, I’m not leaving Baker Street, they couldn’t pay me enough to do that,” John assured her.  “The offer is extremely good, it’s just that…”

“You’re still waiting for that text,” Mrs. Hudson finished, smiling sadly as she passed over a plate of food.  “He’s got us so well trained, hasn’t he?  As for MI6, you should accept their offer.  A change of scenery might do you some good, especially since St. Bart’s is where Sherlock—” Mrs. Hudson choked on the next word but continued anyway.  “And the two of you cared for each other so much…”

“Ah, Mrs. Hudson, I don’t think it was ever like that, Sherlock didn’t do sentiment and he had the Work,” John carefully interrupted.

Mrs. Hudson shook her head.  “It was the little things, John. I saw the little things,” she said.  “He used to play the violin at all hours of the night before you came, but after you arrived, he started stopping at midnight unless it was a particularly difficult case.”

John nodded absently, recalling the night at the Pool.  If there had ever been a turning point in their relationship, that would have been it.  He wondered if perhaps there had been something, and he missed it because he’d been so busy trying to bury his own feelings on the matter since they would have been nothing but interference and without reciprocation.  “Damn him,” he finally groaned, resting his head in his hands.  “I’m trying so damn hard to move on like everyone is telling me to, but he’s making it near impossible and he’s not even here.”

“Like I said, dear, he’s got us so well-trained,” Mrs. Hudson said, before starting on her breakfast.  “Here is what I _suggest_ you do.  Accept MI6’s job offer, invite James and Molly over for dinner as a celebration for the change in pace, and I’ll invite Quinn.”

“Are you trying to matchmake James and Molly now?” John asked with a faint grin.

“Well, Molly is a sweet girl who deserves someone that makes her happy.  Quinn insists they’re just friends, and showed me a photograph of his girlfriend back in Sussex.  The two of them look absolutely adorable together,” Mrs. Hudson replied primly even though she was still smiling.  “The last time he was here, I asked James if he was seeing someone and he said he wasn’t.  So I thought he and Molly would get along well.”

“I don’t know if James will be her type, I don’t remember him being the type to settle down,” John said, recalling the wild nights the soldiers and sailors had back while on the front lines. 

“Doesn’t hurt to try,” Mrs. Hudson said, smiling before finishing her breakfast.

“I have a question, about something you said with Quinn and Sherlock,” John said, finally identifying what bothered him about what Mrs. Hudson said earlier.  “What makes him think that Sherlock didn’t die?  Was he there and saw something I didn’t see?”

“You’ll have to ask him, dear.  I asked him that, and his mobile rang with an emergency so he had to go,” Mrs. Hudson said as the two finished eating.  Sighing, she stood up to start clearing dishes, and added, “I did ask him not to bring it up again, I thought it would upset you.”

“All right, I think I know where I can find him,” John said, standing up to help her as well.

_Thump!_

The two of them jumped when there was a muffled thump somewhere downstairs.  “See?  That’s the sound I heard, only it was up instead of down,” Mrs. Hudson said, promptly abandoning the dishes and hurrying toward the door that led to the flat.  John stayed close behind her, wondering what could make such a racket.

To his surprise, it was Quinn. 

The other man was leaning against the wall as though resting, trying to come off as casual but looked incredibly guilty at the same time.  He blinked when he saw the two of them at the top of the stairs, and tilted his head before asking, “Something wrong?”

“Were you upstairs earlier this morning?  I heard some strange noises and went up to investigate,” Mrs. Hudson said, beginning her slow walk down the stairs.

“Ah, no.  That was not me.  I just came in through the door and dropped my bag by accident,” he said, moving a leg to show the black case underneath.  “It was heavier than I thought it was, so I dropped it as soon as I got inside.  Didn’t want to make a scene on the front step,” he said, moving away from the wall.  He walked to stand in the hall leading to his flat, and asked, “You wouldn’t happen to know who was moving in across the street, would you?”

“Oh, a military man.  Retired colonel, I just can’t remember his name at the moment,” Mrs. Hudson said, the worry erasing itself from her face as she spoke.  “Mrs. Peabody, the landlady across the street, very nice, she told me that he retired from the army.  She invited me over to tea today to meet him.”

“Ah, I see,” Quinn said, glancing warily at John before turning back to Mrs. Hudson.  “My apologies, I’ll get my things out of the way.”

“Do be careful dear, I don’t want you to get hurt,” Mrs. Hudson said cheerfully as she headed back to her flat, closing the door with a gentle _snap_.

“Here, let me help you,” John said, coming down the rest of the way.

“I don’t wish to aggravate your leg injury even more,” Quinn replied carefully as he knelt down to collect his bags again.  He paused, and then looked up at John.  “Unless of course, you have something else you want to talk about?” he asked innocently, making eye contact with John.

Now that Mrs. Hudson pointed it out, John could really see the similarities between Sherlock and Quinn in regards to mannerisms.  Appearances aside, the two could possibly fake being the other if they put work into it.  Pushing the thought away in order to focus, he knelt down and said, “Mrs. Hudson said you said that you don’t think Sherlock is dead.”

Quinn smiled.  “Straight to the point, I see why Mr. Holmes, my employer likes you sometimes,” he said quietly, pausing in the fiddling of the bag straps.  “But yes, as I told Mrs. Hudson, I don’t think Sherlock died.”

“Where is your evidence?”

Quinn shrugged. “CCTV cameras and the fact I was at the scene.  It was a magic trick, John.  Nothing but a magic trick,” he said before standing and collecting the bag.  He grunted when he slung it over his shoulder, and then said, “Please excuse me, I need to get rid of this for now.  I do believe you have a phone call to make in the meantime.”  Pointedly glancing back up at the flat, where John knew the MI6 mobile to be waiting, he said, “Perhaps I will see you tomorrow.”

John nodded, and stood up to let Quinn go back to his flat.

Then, decision made, he turned and headed back to 221B.


	14. Chapter 14

James was waiting patiently on the front step the next morning when John finally left the building, assuring Mrs. Hudson that yes, he was going to come back in time for dinner, yes, he was going to be careful, and no, he might not be able to walk Gladstone later that afternoon.  James was grinning broadly by the time the door shut and John joined him at the curb next to a sleek new car of an unfamiliar model to John. 

“Stop smirking like that, I think she’ll be adopting you next just because you’re constantly hanging around,” John chided as he walked around to the passenger door.

“Oh? And what makes you think that?” James asked as he unlocked the door with a button on the key fob.

“She was talking about setting you up with Molly, she’s worried that you’re lonely and thinks that Molly would be a good match for you,” John said as the two of them slid into their respective seats.  “She already tried matching Molly with Quinn, but apparently Quinn has a girlfriend back in Sussex.”

James sighed as he turned the car on.  “Molly’s nice, from what I know so far, but I don’t think she’ll particularly like my lifestyle.  Hard to remain safe and faithful in the line of work I’ve settled in,” he said, glancing back before easing the car out onto the road.  John watched in fascination as the other tapped something on the dashboard, near the radio, and said, “R, car’s all yours.  Two-two-one Baker Street.”

There was a soft _beep_ , and then the car smoothly pulled out into the street.  “Q-Branch, the IT department of MI6, wanted to test one of their latest toys out on a perfectly good car,” James explained as he kept his hands on the wheel, but John realized that the other man was letting the wheel slide through his hands.  “Apparently someone brought back an NPR report from a trip to the States about hackers getting into a car’s GPS system, and they got the idea to try remote-controlled cars in the event that the driver was otherwise unable to comply with orders or directions.”

_Beep!_

James glanced down at his mobile in the cup-holder, reached over, and then tossed it into the backseat.  “They should count their blessings that I didn’t just throw it out the window.”

“Christ, I see you’re still a bloody menace,” John said, shaking his head as he grinned.  “No wonder the woman seemed tetchy when you came up in the conversation last week.”

“Probably why she gave the order to have me shot a few months ago, back in August,” James said, scowling at the memory.  Shaking his head, he said,

“What exactly is it that you do at MI6?” John asked, turning to face James.

James was quiet for a moment.  “The Double-Oh program.  In other words, the one program with the shortest lifespan, highest pay, and the one department at MI6 guaranteed to drive M’s blood pressure through the roof,” he said finally, hands tightening on the wheel for the briefest of moments.

John raised an eyebrow just as there was another _beep_ from the dash.

James rolled his eyes a few seconds later.  “Excuse me, _I’m_ the one most guaranteed to drive M’s blood pressure through the roof.  Although Q, he’s in charge of Q-Branch, did a pretty good job elevating her blood pressure a couple weeks ago.  He lost track of a mark, and we all know better than to talk about it.  And I’m not the only one.  Remind me to introduce you to a Navy friend when he gets back from Italy,” he said, grinning.  “I think you two will like each other.”

John grinned. “Why do I get the feeling that somewhere, someone is howling in terror at the thought?” he asked as the car moved forward again, the wheel once again sliding smoothly through James’ loose grip.

“That would be Q, O’Reilly, or M you’re probably thinking of, most likely O’Reilly,” James said, shaking his head as he leaned back in the seat.  “Anyway, when we get to SIS Headquarters, first order of business will be getting your ID card along with anything else that O’Reilly deemed necessary to get in and out of Medical without hindrance.  New policy and everything, after double-oh eight was caught sneaking _into_ Medical to steal something from the supply cabinet, he still won’t tell anyone what it was he was after.”

“The way O’Reilly was going, I always thought that it was getting _out_ that was the major problem,” John said, frowning.

“Never said it wasn’t.  Just pointing out that there’s always the one person who tries to get _in_ ,” James said, leaning back as he kept one hand on the wheel.  “Double-oh eight isn’t that smart when he starts panicking, he almost mistook an actor for Q once when in public, or so Tess claims.  I was still in Scotland with M.”

“Did that have something to do with the destruction of the MI6 headquarters?” John asked, recalling the media buzz over the attack.  Granted, he’d been working at the time it happened, but the hospital had gone into lockdown not too long after.  Speculations had ranged from terrorist attacks to movie filming to something going wrong in the building, nobody really knew what went on in there to begin with.

“Yes.  I was in Turkey at the time, but it was a terrorist attack,” James said, his voice almost worryingly clinical.

John nodded, well aware of when it was time to change the conversation.  “You mentioned Quinn works with you, and I know he works in IT, so I’m assuming he’s in MI6’s equivalent of IT department?”

“John, I hate to be the one that says this, but in about fifteen minutes, Quinn is going to go from harmless neighbor to one of the most powerful individuals in MI6,” James said grimly, nodding to the side as they crossed the Vauxhall Bridge.  John glanced over to the MI6 building, and felt a slight twinge of nerves.  “I suspect that if he ever had the inclination, he could even take over a high government position.  Lucky for us, he seems happy in Q-Branch, and as long as he stays that way, we’re fine.”

“Either way, I think we’re safe.  I know a few government officials who wouldn’t let him get remotely close to succeeding,” John said, thinking of Mycroft Holmes.  “Assuming M doesn’t stop him first.”

“Knowing her, she’d send _me_ after him in some twisted form of irony,” James grumbled, taking hold of the wheel to turn the car; it had been about to move past a turn.  “Someone in Q-Branch doesn’t know how to read a map,” he muttered as he guided the car to where an uniformed guard was waiting on the curb.  “Let’s go, M wants to see you in two hours and expects you to have settled in by then,” he said, raising an eyebrow as the car switched itself off.  “First stop is Q-Branch for ID,” he said before getting out of the car, John moving quickly to keep up with him.  As the two men walked away, John glanced back to see the guard getting in.

“Is he-”

“He’ll take the car to the car park so that the techs can go back to working on it,” James said, glancing back long enough.  “He wouldn’t try something stupid like stealing it.  The last time someone stole tech, before Turkey, security was on him before he could even leave the building, turned out to be an accident on his part,” he said, pushing the doors open so the two could enter.  “Medical and Q-Branch are the two most secure departments after the administration.  A tech can’t sneeze without someone else knowing about it,” he added, pausing as three security officers moved to block their way.  He tilted his head, and then asked, “Problem, gentlemen?”

The leader swallowed visibly, but straightened his spine anyway.  “Random spot check, M’s orders,” he said, eyes flickering between the two of them.

“Doctor Watson is with me at O’Reilly’s request,” James said, nodding to John as he handed over the ID.  “And he’s unarmed, so I don’t think frisking isn’t really necessary.”  James glanced past him, and said, “I also hardly think it’s fair for three to challenge two, wouldn’t you say?”

The officer hesitated, clearly debating the merits of challenging James.  John noticed that while the leader was meeting James in the eye, the other two were nervously hanging back, tensing as though to break up an inevitable fight.  “M…” the man began reluctantly.

“Asked that the agent and doctor come with me and that you three stop messing around,” came a familiar, crisp voice behind the officers.  John spotted Quinn standing behind the officers, holding a few folders and a Scrabble mug.  He looked faintly annoyed, although he nodded to John when they made eye contact.  “Agent Double-oh seven was doing a test run for me earlier today and Doctor Watson is the new physician in Medical.  You three were all informed of their arrivals today and given photographs along with the necessary information, so there is no need to pick fights here,” he said, turning his attention back to the officers, two of whom balked at his words.  “M is aware they are here, and also asked me to tell you that challenging a double-oh agent is something usually reserved for the junior agents, not seasoned professionals such as yourselves.”

The leader nodded, glanced at John warily, and then obediently stepped back to allow the two of them through.

Quinn gestured with his head that they follow him and waited until they entered the nearby stairwell before speaking.  “M has been under a level of stress all morning, and is taking it out on anyone unfortunate to get close to her.  That means that Tanner, Mallory, and I have been getting the full brunt of it,” he said, raking an absentminded hand through his hair.  John frowned when he saw that the younger man was still limping; it was subtle, but definitely present.

“Why is she upset _now_?  I didn’t even blow anything up,” James countered good-naturedly.

Quinn took a steadying breath.  “Apparently, the Ministry of Defense is… less than pleased about the loss of Silva, and now higher officials are getting involved.  Mycroft Holmes is the latest to express interest in a meeting,” he said, glancing at John.  “Is he the older brother of…”

“Yes, and I never liked _my_ meetings with him,” John said, still remembering getting kidnapped the numerous times at Mycroft’s convenience.  “He’d kidnap me straight off the street if it suited him.”

James snorted.  “I wouldn’t have even gotten in the car,” he said.  “Was it just the two brothers, Mycroft and Sherlock, right?” he asked, glancing at John, who nodded. 

“They never spoke of any other relatives other than their mother, who sounds like a force to be reckoned with,” John said, reflexively turning to Quinn, who looked oddly calm for what appeared to be a nerve-wracking topic; even James seemed agitated, if his fidgeting was anything to go by.  If what James said was true, Quinn was just as implicit in this matter as James was.

James evidently missed Quinn’s reaction.  “I think my colleague, double-oh nine, has a job as security detail for a Lady Holmes,” James said, turning back to Quinn as though for confirmation.  “Q?”

“I wouldn’t know, as I have handed to all lower-risk missions to R for handling.  I’m wrapped in the two missions between double-oh six and five, although double-oh five has been recalled from Macau since there has been no sign of further activity on any of the surrounding islands,” Quinn— _Q_ , John reminded himself—said, carefully shuffling folders between arms while still keeping the Scrabble mug balanced.  “In the meantime, double-oh seven, you and I are _still_ stuck together once you show John the way to Medical and complete your _overdue_ monthly physical-”

“Can’t really do that with a busted arm, even O’Reilly knows that,” James said, smirking once he knew Q wasn’t looking at him.

John could tell this was a familiar argument; Q just waved the words off tiredly with a folder labeled _Quarterly Budget Report: Jan-Apr. 2013_ without bothering to turn around.  “Go bother R while I work with Doctor Watson,” he said, tapping out a seven-digit code into the keypad. 

James scowled as the door slid open.  “You’re trying to get rid of me now, aren’t you?” he asked.

“Oh dear, you figured out my dastardly plan,” Q said dryly before ushering John towards a small office, and shooing James away.  Shaking his head, he glanced back at James, who had taken to hovering behind two female technicians without them knowing, and then he said, “He’s always underfoot, I should have asked for another bodyguard when M said I had to have one,” he said, closing the door behind John.

“He does mean well, he’s concerned enough to have talked about it.  At least as far as I know, anyway,” John said, watching the other man move fluidly around the office, pulling together several sheets of paperwork and a small device that made John feel wary. 

Q shrugged.  “He ‘talked’ to me as well, he still sees me as a threat.  Doesn’t matter, everything will be over soon, and I can breathe again,” he said, taking a slim book off his desk as he passed it and stuffed it into his desk drawer.  “I just need double-oh six to return home in one piece first, and then I can relax.”  He clicked a pen to check the tip, and then said, “M has the serious paperwork, this is so I can double-check your arranged security clearances and prepare the necessary documentation for you.  I’ll send a staffer up with the finish ID once it’s ready,” he said, passing over the few sheets.  Tapping the machine, he said, “When you’re ready, I’ll need a retina scan and finger and handprints.

John nodded, and pretended to set down to work, but kept an eye on Q at first.

The other man seemed to be in a constant state of motion, as though unsure of what he should be doing.  Only very rarely did Sherlock ever do that, always having the latest experiment or case to keep his attention from fidgeting.  When he didn’t though, he’d always hover, as though attempting to look busy in order to avoid some sort of expected critique.  It still led John to wonder what the Holmes brothers faced when growing up—Sherlock _never_ talked about his family, not even about Mycroft, when it was just the two of them—and the cases seemed to take up so much of his attention anyway that his family had never been an issue.  Hell, John hadn’t even realized there was an older brother until Sherlock and Mycroft had gotten into a disagreement after John shot the cabbie, before Sherlock dragged John away from the scene. 

It was eerie.  John almost wanted to ask Q if he and Sherlock were stepbrothers, or at very least related to each other, but knew that if there happened to be a familial connection, he’d be dredging up painful memories for the other man, and today, he was focused on moving forward once he was ready to let the matter rest for good.  “Q, can I ask you one more question?”

“You just did,” Q quipped, grinning briefly at John to let him know he was joking.  “Seriously though, what is it?”

“It was something you said yesterday, when we were talking about your theory that Sherlock wasn’t dead,” John said, interest piquing when Q paused in his movements.  “You said that you were at the scene, and the fall was nothing more than a ‘magic trick’.  What did you mean by that?” he asked, signing off the last form.

Q was quiet for a moment, and then he headed to the door to ensure that it was locked.  Then, running a hand through his hair in agitation, he turned to John and said, “That… John… I don’t remember that conversation.  I was here all through yesterday and today, working on getting some things along in development,” he said, making eye contact with the other man.  Nodding to the window that overlooked the rest of the department, he added, “You can ask anyone here, I was here all day and night.”

“Then to whom did I talk?” John asked, immediately recalling the other man.  “He _looked_ like you…”

“I do have two older brothers, one of whom could be my twin if we weren’t five years apart and he was taller than me,” Q said, leaning carefully against the desk.  “We used to pretend and be the other when we were still the same height…” He sighed, and then said, “I truly am sorry about that John, I thought the git was out of town until March.”

“In which case, do you stand by what _you_ said to Mrs. Hudson?  That Sherlock isn’t dead?” John asked, handing the paperwork over and accepting the device.

“Well, I never saw the body at the funeral, so anything goes, hm?  Granted, there was a closed casket, but you’ll have to forgive me.  You’ll find here at MI6 that we tend to be a little jaded toward the dead since sometimes, the dead have a hard time staying dead,” he said, nodding pointedly in James’ direction through the observation window.  “He’s the worst offender and O’Reilly’s personal nightmare.”

John sighed, shaking his head with a smile as he followed Q’s gestures to where to put his hand and eye.  “Is O’Reilly hoping I can put a stop to that?” he asked, grinning slightly as he tried not to flinch at the soft whine of the scanners.

“I suspect so, but who knows with the double-ohs, the prize for staying out of Medical the longest is a free round of drinks.  Each round of the game ends with the month, and double-oh four is winning so far,” Q said, shrugging as he took the device from John and plugged it into the desk computer before typing in a few commands.  “I’ve still got plans to muck that up, to keep Medical happy.”  He glanced at John, smirking.  “Medical and Q-Branch have something of an… understanding.  We supply the tech necessary to track errant patients down, and Medical gives us leeway when it comes to monthly checkups because nine times out of ten, a technician is already there because of a testing mishap.  O’Reilly has R&D’s testing schedule for the month, he’ll mention it when you head upstairs.”

John grinned, already feeling more at ease.  This sort of alliance had happened within regiments in the army, when he still served.  It was a symbiotic relationship that occurred in different workplaces, but somehow, the military-based operations always stepped up the notch a little in comparison to civilian ones.  “I look forward to working with you then,” he said, standing up as Q let out a small noise of delight, pulling out a card.

“As do I.  Do try not to lose this, it not only has a microchip tracker and all your personal information encoded on it, it also has access into Medical as well as any other areas that O’Reilly specified for you last night,” Q said, handing over the ID.  “And, as far as any civilians are concerned, you are working at Universal Exports, M will go further in depth with that when she meets with you to finalize your employment here.”  He glanced out the window, scowled, and said, “And take _him_ with you, I’m shocked that they get anything done with him around.”

John glanced out the observation window, and nearly laughed when he saw James exchanging easy banter with a female technician, which seemed unusually excited to be talking to him.  “I take it that this is a regular occurrence?” he asked.

“And an unfortunate one, the last thing I need is for the higher-ups to think that I can’t manage my own branch,” Q said, expression darkening as the doors opened and an unfamiliar man entered.  “Excuse me, I have to intercept Sandler before he stirs the branch up again,” he said, nearly dropping his scanner in his haste for the door.  He paused to unlock it, and then said, “Good luck, Doctor Watson, and know you are among allies here.”

John nodded, watching the other dart out into the branch, startling Sandler for a moment. Then he left the office and joined James, who was now watching the inevitable altercation with interest.  “Will he be all right?” he asked after a moment.

“Debatable.  They sniped at each other until Q did his job and called the shots, putting Sandler back in his place,” James said, leaning back on a foot.  Shaking his head, he said, “I understand he’s under a lot of stress right now, he’s still reestablishing his position as Quartermaster, but I feel like he’s up to something else as well.  There was a package that came here the other night, and he’s been a little jumpy ever since then.  I never found out if it got returned to the post office.  Call it a gut feeling, but he’s up to something, and I think Sigerson is part of it.”

John was silent for a moment.  “How do you think you’re going to figure it out then, if he won’t talk?” he asked.

James smirked before gesturing with his head toward the door.  “Same way I find out what the mark is up to,” he replied enigmatically before turning to leave Q-Branch.

John glanced back at Q one last time before following James out of the branch.


End file.
